Harry grew red at this home-thrust.
“And I suppose you think you have impressed her very favorably by drawling compliments into her ear one minute and turning your back to her the next?”
“That’s all his science,” said Wilfred, who had been drinking more than the rest, but who had as much wit when he was tipsy as his brothers had when they were sober.
“Well, haven’t we exhausted the little governess?” asked George, yawning.
“Yes; let us talk of the Duchess of Shoreditch,” proposed Wilfred, mimicking him.
“Oh, y-e-s, we will!” said Harry, following his example rather clumsily. “You might have condescended to see a duchess home yourself, perhaps?”
“To the man of principle all women are duchesses,” answered Wilfred, who was becoming tiresome.
“My dear Wilfred, what do you know about the man of principle?” asked his eldest brother, with a look which recalled to the sententious one various occasions on which his morality had given way rather suddenly. “All women are not duchesses; and I would rather see a governess home on a moonlit evening than a duchess, for the simple reason that I should get better paid for my trouble.”
“Not by Miss Lane!” cried Harry, starting up, his face aflame.
George did not answer.