“There can be no doubt, I suppose,” said Dot, when Frank had consoled himself by anathematising the earl for ten minutes, “as to the fact of Miss Wyndham’s inheriting her brother’s fortune?”
“Faith, I don’t know; I never thought about her fortune if you’ll believe me. I never even remembered that her brother’s death would in any way affect her in the way of money, until after I left Grey Abbey.”
“Oh, I can believe you capable of anything in the way of imprudence.”
“Ah, but, Dot, to think of that pompous fool—who sits and caws in that dingy book-room of his, with as much wise self-confidence as an antiquated raven—to think of him insinuating that I had come there looking for Harry Wyndham’s money; when, as you know, I was as ignorant of the poor fellow’s death as Lord Cashel was himself a week ago. Insolent blackguard! I would never, willingly, speak another word to him, or put my foot inside that infernal door of his, if it were to get ten times all Harry Wyndham’s fortune.”
“Then, if I understand you, you now mean to relinquish your claims to Miss Wyndham’s hand.”
“No; I don’t believe she ever sent the message her uncle gave me. I don’t see why I’m to give her up, just because she’s got this money.”
“Nor I, Frank, to tell the truth; especially considering how badly you want it yourself. But I don’t think quarrelling with the uncle is the surest way to get the niece.”
“But, man, he quarrelled with me.”
“It takes two people to quarrel. If he quarrelled with you, do you be the less willing to come to loggerheads with him.”
“Wouldn’t it be the best plan, Dot, to carry her off?”