‘We shall get rid of them all soon, sir,’ said his companion, with a malignant smile.
‘I have heard that he is very young, sir,’ remarked the widow.
‘What is that to you or me?’
‘Ah! youth is a trying time. Let us hope the best! He may turn out well yet, poor soul!’
‘I hope not. Don’t talk to me of poor souls. There is a poor soul,’ said the utilitarian, pointing to an old man breaking stones on the highway. ‘That is what I call a poor soul, not a young prodigal, whose life has been one long career of infamous debauchery.’
‘You appear to have heard much of this young nobleman,’ said the Duke; ‘but it does not follow, sir, that you have heard truth.’
‘Very true, sir,’ said the widow. ‘The world is very foul-mouthed. Let us hope he is not so very bad.’
‘I tell you what, my friends; you know nothing about what you are talking of. I don’t speak without foundation. You have not the least idea, sir, how this fellow has lived. Now, what I am going to tell you is a fact: I know it to be a fact. A very intimate friend of mine, who knows a person, who is a very intimate friend of an intimate friend of a person, who knows the Duke of St. James, told me himself, that one night they had for supper—what do you think ma’am?—Venison cutlets, each served up in a hundred pound note!’
‘Mercy!’ exclaimed the widow.
‘And do you believe it?’ asked the Duke.