“And I hope he will not, sir. He is no credit to your mother.”
“But I think he means well, my dear,” said Mrs Wilton, plaintively. “It is not his fault. My poor dear sister did spoil him so.”
“Humph! And she was not alone. Look here, Claud, I will not have him here. I have reasons for it, and he, with his gambling and racing propensities, is no proper companion for you.”
“P’raps old Garstang says the same about me,” said the young man, sulkily.
“Claud, my dear, for shame,” said Mrs Wilton. “You should not say such things.”
“I don’t care what John Garstang says; I will not have his boy here. Insolent, priggish, wanting in respect to me, and—and—he was a deal too attentive to Kate.”
“Oh, my dear, did you think so?” cried Mrs Wilton.
“Yes, madam, I did think so,” said her husband with asperity, “and, what was ten times worse, you were always leaving them together in your blundering way.”
“Don’t say such things to me, dear, before Claud.”
“Then don’t spend your time making mistakes. Just come, have you, sir?”