“I rely upon you, Ayscough. I rely on you absolutely.”
Ayscough looked blank. It was no use trying to explain to Featherstone the exact state of the family’s finance. Generations of Featherstones had eaten well into the coffers. Prodigality was their outstanding characteristic.
“If I might make a suggestion——”
Featherstone was in the mood to consider the wildest suggestion. He had none of his own.
“There is—er—Miss Angela.”
“There is, Ayscough. Precisely—there is.” Then he suddenly halted and looked at the lawyer. “By Jove! I see your point. But it won’t avail us. Angela is a queer girl. She has distinct aversions to marriage.”
“But if she knew that a wealthy—er—fortunate marriage would save you and Lady Featherstone a certain amount of anxiety——?”
“I doubt it. Besides, wealthy husbands are not so easily picked up. There are a dozen girls after every man of ample means. No, I think we may discard that possibility. Think it over, my dear Ayscough. I leave it entirely in your hands.” 51
Ayscough had been thinking it over for the last three years. He went away with visions of the fall of the house of Featherstone at no very distant date.
At that moment the Honorable Angela was busily engaged sending out invitations to a dinner party. She was two years older than Claude, a typical Featherstone, fair and straight of limb, with finely chiseled features and delicate complexion. Her eyes were large and long-lashed, but somewhat cold. A life of indolence and luxury had bred a certain air of imperiousness in her. She was known to her friends as Angela the frigid. But this appellation was not quite justified. At times she was far from frigid. Under different circumstances she might have been as warm-blooded as any Southern peasant-girl, but pride of birth and breeding had dampered down most of the natural emotions. She was exquisite in every physical detail.