“Very soon, Jones.”
“Bless—very good, sir. Of course, if I may be so bold as to inquire, sir, it's—it's—ahem?”
“Certainly, Jones. Who else could it be?”
“To be sure, sir, it couldn't be anyone else. Thank you, sir. Yes, sir. She is the finest young lady in this 'ere world, Mr Frederic. You did say Golden Seal, Cliquot, ninety-eight, sir? It's the best in the 'ouse, sir, quite the best at present.”
Later on Frederic made his announcement to the old men. In the fever of an excitement that caused him to forget that Lydia might be entitled to some voice in the matter, he deliberately committed her to the project that had become a fixed thing in his mind the instant he set foot in the house and found it empty—oh, so empty!
Jones's practised hand shook slightly as he poured the wine. The old men drank rather noisily. They, too, were excited. Mr Riggs smacked his lips and squinted at the chandelier, as if trying to decide upon the vintage, but in reality doing his best to keep from coughing up the wine that had gone the wrong way in a moment of profound paralysis.
“The best news I've heard since Judas died,” said Mr Dawes manfully. “Fill 'em up again, Jones. I want to propose the health of Mrs Brood.”
“The future Mrs Brood,” hissed Mr Riggs wheezily, glaring at his comrade. “Ass!”
“I'm not married yet, Mr Dawes,” explained Frederic, grinning.
“Makes no difference,” said Mr Dawes stoutly. “Far as I'm concerned, you are. We'll be the first to drink to Lydia Brood! The first to call her by that name, gentlemen. God bless her!”