Bertram ignored both the question and the laughter. “I should like to know,” he persisted, “what his intentions may be?”
“As strictly dishonourable as even you could wish—Pierrot!” mocked his undutiful child.
“Oh, damn!—Sorry, Peter; but do I look like a Pierrot?”
“More like an organ-grinder; you’re disgracefully shabby.”
“I know,” ruefully; “and my dress-suit is much too tight, supposing I wore it in the mornings.”
“I don’t think that Aunt Esther would approve of that.”
“Well, I’ll run in to Lazarus to-morrow, and see if he’ll rig me up a suit on spec.”
“Mr. Lazarus,” murmured Peter, “has just got out a summons against me. I wouldn’t go to Mr. Lazarus, if I were you.”
“Lord!” Bertram exclaimed in genuine sympathy. “I’m awfully sorry, Peter, old girl; I was just going to ask you to lend me a fiver. I wonder if I could borrow a ten-pound-note from anyone, and lend you a fiver to pay Lazarus; then he might make me that suit without pressing for payment, and I’d be five pounds to the good.” He brightened considerably at the prospect of five pounds to the good, and, jingling the imaginary coins in his pocket, evidently considered that he had now solved the financial problem with as much ease as he had previously disposed of his daughter’s love affairs. He turned to his own matrimonial aspects: “Chavvy will be perfectly happy with you and Esther, I suppose. The tour will only be for the rest of the season.”