“And this is a Christian country!” said Lord Fotheringay solemnly, after a pause of considerable duration.
“Nominally,” said Mr. Airey,
“What is society coming to, Airey, when a woman occupying the position of Lady Innisfail, does not hesitate to throw all considerations of friendship to the winds solely for the sake of a momentary sensation?”
Lord Fotheringay was now so solemn that his words and his method of delivering them suggested the earnestness of an evangelist—zeal is always expected from an evangelist, though unbecoming in an ordained clergyman. He held one finger out and raised it and lowered it with the inflections of his voice with the skill of a professional moralist.
He had scarcely spoken before Miss Avon, by the side of the judge and Miss Innisfail, appeared on the terrace.
The judge—he said he had known her father—was beaming on her. Professing to know her father he probably considered sufficient justification for beaming on her.
Lord Fotheringay and his companion watched the girl in silence until she and her companions had descended to the path leading to the cliffs.
“Airey,” said Lord Fotheringay at length. “Airey, that boy of mine must be prevented from making a fool of himself—he must be prevented from making a fool of that girl. I would not like to see such a girl as that—I think you said you noticed her eyes—made a fool of.”
“It would be very sad,” said Edmund. “But what means do you propose to adopt to prevent the increase by two of the many fools already in the world?”
“I mean to marry the girl myself,” cried Lord Fotheringay, rising to his feet—not without some little difficulty, for rheumatism had for years been his greatest enemy.