“For,” said Lady Millet, “I can never forgive Gertrude; and as to that dreadful man Huish, in marrying him she has disgraced herself beyond the power to redeem her lot. Ah me! and these are the children I have nurtured in my bosom.”
It was rather hard work for Dick Millet, with his own love affairs in a state of “check,” with no probability of “mate,” but he felt that he must act; and in his newly assumed character of head of the family he determined to go and try to smooth matters over at Chesham Place, and took a hansom to see Frank Morrison, who was now back at his own house, but alone, and who surlily pointed to a chair as he sat back pale and nervous of aspect, wrapped in a dressing-gown.
“Look here, Frank,” said Dick, sitting down, and helping himself to a cigar, “we’re brothers-in-law, and I’m not going to quarrel. I’ve come for the other thing.”
“My cigars, seemingly,” said the other.
“Yes; they’re not bad. But look here, old fellow, light up; I want to talk to you.”
“If you want to borrow twenty pounds, say so, and I’ll draw you a cheque.”
“Hang your cheque! I didn’t come to borrow money. Light up.”
Morrison snatched up a cigar, bit off the end, and lit it, threw himself back in his chair, and began to smoke quickly.
“Go on,” he said. “What is it?”
“Wait a minute or two,” said Dick. “Smoke five minutes first.”