I don’t quite like the look of him, sir; gives the name of White—Mr. Valentine White.
Brooke Twombley.
Why, that’s my cousin!
Probyn.
Cousin, sir! I beg pardon.
Brooke Twombley.
Where is he?
[Brooke goes out quickly, followed by Probyn. The Hon. Mrs. Gaylustre, an attractive, self-possessed, mischievous-looking woman, of not more than thirty, very fashionably dressed, enters from the drawing-room.]
Mrs. Gaylustre.
How very charming! Lady Twombley’s latest fad, the Algerian conservatory. And there was a time when a sprig of geranium on the window-sill would have contented her. [Looking at a photograph of Lady Twombley upon the table.] There she is—Kitty Twombley. In one of my gowns too. Kitty Twombley, once Kitty White, the daughter of a poor farmer down in Cleverton. Ah, when young Mr. Julian Twombley came canvassing Farmer White’s vote he found you innocently scrubbing the bricks, I suppose! And now! [With a courtesy.] Lady Twombley, wife of a Cabinet Minister and Patroness Extraordinary of that deserving young widow, Fanny Gaylustre! [She sits surveying the portraits upon the table.] Ha, ha! I’ll turn you all to account some fine day. Why shouldn’t I finish as well as the dairy-fed daughter of a Devonshire yokel? What on earth is wrong with my bonnet? [She puts her hand up behind her head and finds Lady Twombley’s letter which Brooke had left on the back of the chair.] Lady Twombley’s writing. [Reading.] “My sweet child. For heaven’s sake let me have your skeddle——” [She sits up suddenly and devours the contents of the letter.] Oh! [Reading aloud.] “I’m desperately short of money! Things are as blue as old Stilton! If your pa finds out——!” My word!