“Well, indeed, sir, it's more than I can tell you. There 'a people here not a bit correcter than herself that won't meet her.”
“Meet whom?”
“Madame, sir,—Madame Cleremont.”
“Don't dare to say another word,” cried I, passionately. “If you utter a syllable of disrespect to that name, I 'll fling you out of the window.”
“Don't be afraid, Master Digby, I know my station, and I never forget it, sir. I was only telling you what you asked me, not a word more. The swells sent back your father's cards, and there's more than three hundred of them returned.”
“And where's papa now?' *
“In bed, sir. He told his valet he was n't to be disturbed, except the house took fire.”
“Is Madame Cleremont below?”
“No, sir; she's very ill. The doctor has been with her, and he's coming again to-night.”
“And are these people—this rabble that you talk of—received as my papa's guests?”