Among a houseful of people at Hartlebury, he found Lord Porlock, a slight, sickly, worn-out looking man, who had something about his eye of his father's hardness, but nothing in his mouth of his father's ferocity.
"So your sister is going to be married?" said Mr. Palliser.
"Yes. One has no right to be surprised at anything they do, when one remembers the life their father leads them."
"I was going to congratulate you."
"Don't do that."
"I met him at Courcy, and rather liked him."
Mr. Palliser had barely spoken to Mr. Crosbie at Courcy, but then in the usual course of his social life he seldom did more than barely speak to anybody.
"Did you?" said Lord Porlock. "For the poor girl's sake I hope he's not a ruffian. How any man should propose to my father to marry a daughter out of his house, is more than I can understand. How was my mother looking?"
"I didn't see anything amiss about her."
"I expect that he'll murder her some day." Then that conversation came to an end.