“It’s—it’s too bad. Little innocent amusement. Bit o’ dinner and glass o’ wine. Charley Melton is all right.”
“Yes,” said Lady Barmouth, “a gambler, a roué. But what wonder. Ah, me! Oh, my poor children. That Melton debauching my husband!”
“And—and—and devilish nice fellow too. I—I—I—I liked it, and—and—and I wished that you had been there, Tom.”
“Thanke, governor.”
“Oh, that I should live to hear all this!”
“You—you ought to have kicked that fellow out, Tom.”
“Be silent, Barmouth, be silent. Tryphie, ring for Justine to help me to my room. My heart is nearly broken now,” she added, in a tone of voice that seemed to indicate that it was only holding together by a little bit of ligament which was ready to go at any moment. “Maude, ungrateful girl, you have heard all. The horrible, dissipated gambler who is dragging my son into his dreadful vortex, and even spreading his meshes around your weak father.”
“Weak!” cried Lord Barmouth; “not at all.”
“I have heard no harm of Mr Melton, mamma,” said Maude. “He—” She checked herself on the point of saying, “He told me he was going.”
“But a gambler, my child—a gambler.”