"No, no, my love; I've just rushed in for a second to tell you about young Mallender. I couldn't say much on the telephone," and in a couple of pithy sentences, he had laid before her Geoffrey's extraordinary enterprise.
"Of course, it must be stopped! He is mad to start off at once. I've handed him over to Byng at the Club, and stuck him to play in the tournament; this will give us breathing-time."
"Breathing-time," repeated his wife, whose astonishment had carried her into an arm-chair.
"Here, read this," handing her the precious letter, "and you will understand the whole position. I know you are safe, Fan, and can be trusted with a family secret."
For a moment he stood watching her closely as she sat engrossed in the sheet of thin yellow paper; then he fidgetted restlessly round the room, straightening a book here, an ornament there.
"What astounding news!" she exclaimed at last; "can you believe it? Do you think it's pucka? or a practical joke?"
"I believe the letter to be genuine," he answered decisively, "and if the boy—a very nice young fellow—persists in his folly, he will be made to pay for it! Four thousand a year is no blind nut, and I intend to put every possible obstacle in his way; not merely because I am heir, but because I like him."
"What sort of obstacles do you suggest, Freddy?"
"Amusements, distractions, polo, balls, pretty faces. We will knock this nonsense out of his head, and take him to the Hills when we move; there he can shoot and hunt, and you might marry him off to some nice girl; by the time the roof is on, they can return and live at Mallender!"
"Ah, so that's your programme!" exclaimed his wife. "Well, of course, I shall be only too delighted to help; but perhaps your cousin is not so easily managed, and married off, as you suppose!"