“I beg you will do no such thing. I’ll take you up this moment to the house. Let me tell you the thing’s impossible, and must be stopped.”
Mrs. Munt did not often lose her temper, and when she did it was only to protect those whom she loved. On this occasion she blazed out. “I quite agree, sir. The thing is impossible, and I will come up and stop it. My niece is a very exceptional person, and I am not inclined to sit still while she throws herself away on those who will not appreciate her.”
Charles worked his jaws.
“Considering she has only known your brother since Wednesday, and only met your father and mother at a stray hotel—”
“Could you possibly lower your voice? The shopman will overhear.”
“Esprit de classe”—if one may coin the phrase—was strong in Mrs. Munt. She sat quivering while a member of the lower orders deposited a metal funnel, a saucepan, and a garden squirt beside the roll of oilcloth.
“Right behind?”
“Yes, sir.” And the lower orders vanished in a cloud of dust.
“I warn you: Paul hasn’t a penny; it’s useless.”
“No need to warn us, Mr. Wilcox, I assure you. The warning is all the other way. My niece has been very foolish, and I shall give her a good scolding and take her back to London with me.”