She did not speak, but bent her head as if she were intent upon some work, and so seated herself that her countenance was almost hid.
‘You have heard from my uncle,’ continued he, laughing; ‘and if you have not heard from him, you have heard from somebody else, of my little scrape. A fool and his money, you know, Caroline, and a short reign and a merry one. When we get prudent we are wondrous fond of proverbs. My reign has certainly been brief enough; with regard to the merriment, that is not quite so certain. I have little to regret except your society, sweet coz!’
‘Dear George, how can you talk so of such serious affairs! If you knew how unhappy, how miserable I am, when I hear the cold, callous world speak of such things with indifference, you would at least not imitate their heartlessness.’
‘Dear Caroline!’ said he, seating himself at her side.
‘I cannot help thinking,’ she continued, ‘that you have not sufficiently exerted yourself about these embarrassments. You are, of course, too harassed, too much annoyed, too little accustomed to the energy and the detail of business, to interfere with any effect; but surely a friend might. You will not speak to my father, and perhaps you have your reasons; but is there no one else? St. Maurice, I know, has no head. Ah! George, I often feel that if your relations had been different people, your fate might have been different. We are the fault.’
He kissed her hand.
‘Among all your intimates,’ she continued, ‘is there no one fit to be your counsellor, no one worthy of your confidence?’
‘None,’ said the Duke, bitterly, ‘none, none. I have no friend among those intimates: there is not a man of them who cares to serve or is capable of serving me.’
‘You have well considered?’ asked Lady Caroline.
‘Well, dear, well. I know them all by rote, head and heart. Ah! my dear, dear Carry, if you were a man, what a nice little friend you would be!’