Thus Lady Orlebar one evening as she sat at dinner with her husband some few weeks after we last saw them together. There was just sufficient point in the ill-conditioned and therefore characteristic sneer to give it effect. Nearly a month had gone by since Philip’s return from the Continent, but somehow he had not found time to pay his father a visit. He was still in Wales, still staying with Mrs Daventer, where he had been ever since his return aforesaid.
“He seems tolerably happy where he is,” went on Lady Orlebar, maliciously, having failed to provoke a reply. “Of course there is a girl in the case, and that with one of Philip’s temperament can lead to but one result. So make up your mind to hear by any post that you are endowed with a daughter-in-law of the least desirable kind.”
Still Sir Francis made no reply. He was, in fact, very sore, very hurt, by Philip’s want of consideration, and his wife’s gibing sneers were probing the wound. This she failed not to see, and, seeing, enjoyed thoroughly, after the manner of her kind.
“Failing the daughter-in-law I prophesy the outcome will be an action for breach of promise,” she went on, characteristically eager to provoke a battle of words in order to enjoy the triumph of crushingly defeating the enemy. “Philip is just the sort who is sent into the world to constitute an easy prey for rogues and adventuresses. The boy is simply a born fool.”
Dinner was over, and the servants had withdrawn. The dessert was on the table—had been for some time—and Sir Francis was wistfully wondering how long it would be before his wife thought fit to follow the example of the servants. Just then a footman entered bearing some letters on a salver. The evening post had arrived.
Welcoming any diversion, Sir Francis proceeded to open his. But at sight of the contents of one of them, his face changed, and an exclamation escaped him. His wife looked quickly up, then without a moment’s hesitation she stretched forth her hand and seized the letter, which in his first bewilderment he had let fall upon the table. A harsh, sneering laugh escaped her as she ran her eye down the contents, and then proceeded to read them aloud:—
“Capias Chambers, Golden Fleece Lane, E.C.
“September 2 3, 188-.
“Glover versus Orlebar.
“Dear Sir,—Instructed by our client, Miss Edith Glover, we have written to your son, Mr Philip Orlebar, claiming from him the sum of 10,000 (ten thousand) pounds damages by reason of non-fulfilment of his promise to marry our aforesaid client.
“Up till now we have received no reply; but we think it may be in the interest of the young gentleman himself that you should be made aware of this claim against him.
“Trusting that by adopting this course further steps may be rendered unnecessary—
“We are, dear Sir,
“Yours faithfully,
“Swindell and Shears.
“To Sir Francis Orlebar, Bart.,
“Claxby Court, Rushtonborough.”
“Ha-ha! Didn’t I say so?” she cried. “And scarcely are the words out of my mouth than here it is—an action for breach of promise! Well, and what are you going to do now, Francis?”
“Nothing. Take no notice of it whatever. The thing is a mere attempt at a swindle—a clumsy, impudent swindle. I sha’n’t give it another moment’s thought.”
Easily said—far less easily done, especially by a nervous highly strung temperament such as that of the speaker.