“Yes, my lady,” said the butler, retiring.
“I’m going to stop and see Maude turned off, if old Wilters don’t have a paralytic stroke on his way to church.”
“Tom!”
“Well, it’s likely enough. He’s only about forty, but he has lived twice as fast as most fellows ever since he was fifteen, so that he’s quite sixty-five.”
“I will not listen to your insults, sir. As your mother, I should at least be spared.”
“Oh, ah, of course,” said Tom, “duty to grey hairs and that sort of thing—Beg pardon though; I see they are not grey. I’m going to stop it all out now, and I shan’t go—and what’s more, mamma,” he cried, nursing one of his little patent leather shoes as he lolled back, “if you are cantankerous, hang me if I don’t contrive that the governor has the full run of the wine at the wedding breakfast, there.”
“If you dare, Tom!” cried her ladyship. “Oh, Justine, my drops.”
“Yes, milady,” said that damsel. “Ah! bold, bad lil man,” she added to herself, as she glanced at Tom, who very rudely winked at her when she closed the door after Lord Barmouth, who crept in and went timidly to an easy-chair.
“Your drops!” said Tom. “Ha—ha—ha! why don’t you take a liqueur of brandy like a woman, and not drink that stuff.”
“Tom,” said her ladyship, “you are too coarse. You will break my heart before you have done. Only to think of your conduct,” she cried, glancing at the chair in the farther room, where Lord Barmouth lay apparently asleep, as being his safest course when there was trouble on the way, “that too of your dozy, dilatory father, when one of you might make a position in Parliament, the other a most brilliant match.”