And he unburdened himself of his complaints against the frivolous charmer, Mrs. Damerel listening with a compassionate smile.
‘I’m afraid it’s all too true, dear boy. But didn’t I warn you?’
‘You have made her worse. And I more than half believe you have purposely put her in the way of that fellow Mankelow. Now I tell you plainly’—his voice quivered—‘if I lose her, I’ll raise all the money I can and play the very devil.’
‘Hush! no naughty words! Let us talk about something else till you are quieter.—What did you think of Mrs. Chittle?’
‘I thought nothing of her, good or bad.’
‘Of her daughter, then. Isn’t she a sweet, quiet girl? Do you know that she is rich? It’s perfectly true. Mrs. Chittle is the widow of a man who made a big fortune out of a kind of imitation velvet. It sold only for a few years, then something else drove it out of the market; but the money was made. I know all about it from Mrs. Dane.’
‘It’s nothing to me,’ said Horace peevishly.
But Mrs. Damerel continued:
‘The poor girl has been very unfortunate. In the last year of her father’s life they lived in good style, town-house and country-house. And she fell in love with somebody who—who treated her badly; broke it off, in fact, just before the wedding. She had a bad illness, and since then she has lived as her mother told you.’
‘How do you know she told me?’