"Why poor?" said Ethel.
"Because he is poor, deuced poor," said Lord Fitz, muttering under his breath, with a sigh, "Like some more of us."
"How do you mean?" said Ethel.
"Well," said Lord Fitz, "he has to work for his living. He's a barrister or something of that sort. But he writes and draws things for books, you know. I don't quite understand. He can sing like a nightingale and tell a story better than any man I know."
"He looks very happy," said Ethel, "although he is poor."
"Happy!" said Lord Fitz. "He's always happy. He's the best company going."
"And who is his friend? Mr. Dodson, is not his name?" asked Ethel.
"Yes, Leicester Dodson," said Lord Fitz. "He's one of your clever men. You can't understand whether he's serious or joking sometimes, and I've often thought he was making fun of me, only——"
"Only what?" asked his sister.
"Only I didn't think he'd have the impudence," said Lord Fitz, proudly. "It isn't nice to be sneered at by a tallow chandler."