“He is a very good sort—if no saint,” declared his wife. “I know you have a prejudice against him—because the Lumleys don’t like him, and you like the Lumleys; but you cannot deny that he is popular?”
“A man with forty thousand a year is bound to be that,” growled her husband.
“He is extremely liberal, and subscribes to everything,” continued Mrs. Fenchurch. “I believe Letty would be the most fortunate girl in England, if she was Mrs. Blagdon. He is certainly thinking of marrying—for the place is entailed, and if anything were to happen to him, every acre of the property would go to a cousin in New Zealand, whom he loathes.”
“And you think he is going to take a wife, if it is only to spite his cousin, eh, Doodie?”
“I think, my dear Tom, that you are in one of your funny tempers this morning—you smoke too much, or you have got a chill on your liver,” and she patted him lightly on the head. “Why, you ought to be enchanted at your niece’s prospects! She is just the sort of little thing that will take to wealth and luxury, like a duck to water.”
“Since you go to the poultry-yard for your similes, it’s my opinion, that you are counting your chickens before they are hatched. What has put this ridiculous idea into your head? Has he said anything?”
“No—not in so many words—but he is coming over here to lunch on Friday.”
“To lunch——for what?” he demanded, and his tone was sharp and inhospitable.
“He says,” she hesitated for a moment, “he says, he has heard a great deal of our—chrysanthemums.”
“Twenty miles’ drive to look at half a dozen pots of chrysanthemums! Bah!” and Colonel Fenchurch sprang to his feet, snatched up his cap, and went out of the room.