“A very good mistress with thirty thousand a year.”
“She has not that,” said Mr. Cassilis doubtingly.
“What do you put Princedown at?” said Mr. Ormsby.
“That I can tell you to a T,” replied Mr. Cassilis, “for it was offered to me when old Rambrooke died. You will never get twelve thousand a year out of it.”
“Well, I will answer for half a million consols,” said Ormsby, “for my lawyer, when he made a little investment for me the other day, saw the entry himself in the bank-books; our names are very near, you know—M, and O. Then there is her jointure, something like ten thousand a year.”
“No, no; not seven.”
“Well, that would do.”
“And what is the amount of your little investment in consols altogether, Ormsby?”
“Well, I believe I top Montfort,” said Mr. Ormsby with a complacent smile, “but then you know, I am not a swell like you; I have no land.”
“Lady Montfort, thirty thousand a year,” said Mr. Cassilis musingly. “She is only thirty. She is a woman who will set the Thames on fire, but she will never marry. Do you dine to-day, by any chance, with Sidney Wilton?”