“Yes, of course,” said Tom, grinning. “I should like to see him do it.”
“But—but—but, Tom, my boy, don’t take it quite so coolly.”
“Why not, father? Hallo? who’s this, eh? Oh, of course,” he said, “here are the women now.”
For her ladyship came in leaning upon Tryphie’s arm, to immediately shriek and fall back in a chair.
“Oh, Tom! oh, Tom,” she cried, “I shall never survive. The disgrace—the disgrace.”
“Nonsense. Here, father, Tryphie, Maude has gone off with Charley Melton, I suppose?”
“No, no, no!” shrieked her ladyship. “Oh, horror, horror, horror!”
“Tryphie, cork her mouth with a handkerchief, or they’ll hear her across the street. Here, father, what’s the row. Charley Melton, eh?”
“No—no—no, my dear boy,” stammered Lord Barmouth, “I—I—I—damme, though her ladyship’s here, I say it in her presence, I wish she had. It’s too dreadful to tell.”
“My God, father!” cried Tom, excitedly, as he turned pale, and the cold sweat stood upon his forehead, for like a flash came upon him the recollection of his sister’s words that day, and brought up such a picture of horror before his eyes, that he trembled like a leaf. “Don’t say—don’t tell me—”