George found himself left next to Sidmouth Vane.
“Hallo, Neston!” said that young gentleman, with his usual freedom. “Locked her up yet?”
George said Mrs. Witt was still at large. Vane had been his fag, and George felt he was entitled to take it out of him in after life whenever he could.
“Wish you would,” continued Mr. Vane. “That ass of a cousin of yours would jilt her, and I would wait outside Holloway or Clerkenwell, or wherever they put ’em, and receive her sympathetically—hot breakfast, brass band, first cigar for six months, and all that, don’t you know, like one of those Irish fellows.”
“You have no small prejudices.”
“Not much. A girl like that, plus an income like that, might steal all Northampton for what I care. Going upstairs?”
“Yes; there’s an ‘At Home’ on, isn’t there?”
“Yes, so I’m told. I shouldn’t go, if I were you.”
“Why the devil not?”
“Gerald’s going to be there—told me so.”