“I thought as much,” said Lord Kilcullen; “I thought he’d alter his mind. Yes, you may give it me, and tell my father I’ll dine in London to-morrow evening.”
“He says, Adolphus, he’ll not see you before you go.”
“Well, there’s comfort in that, anyhow.”
“Oh, Adolphus! how can you speak in that manner now?—how can you speak in that wicked, thoughtless, reckless manner?” said his sister.
“Because I’m a wicked, thoughtless, reckless man, I suppose. I didn’t mean to vex you, Selina; but my father is so pompous, so absurd, and so tedious. In the whole of this affair I have endeavoured to do exactly as he would have me; and he is more angry with me now, because his plan has failed, than he ever was before, for any of my past misdoings.—But let me get up now, there’s a good girl; for I’ve no time to lose.”
“Will you see your mother before you go, Adolphus?”
“Why, no; it’ll be no use—only tormenting her. Tell her something, you know; anything that won’t vex her.”
“But I cannot tell her anything about you that will not vex her.”
“Well, then, say what will vex her least. Tell her—tell her. Oh, you know what to tell her, and I’m sure I don’t.”
“And Fanny: will you see her again?”