“Barmouth,” said her ladyship, taking him into custody, like a plump social policeman, “I want to speak to you.”
“Certainly, my dear,” he said, mildly. “What is it?”
“About this Mr Charles Melton. What income has he?”
“Well, my dear,” said the old gentleman, “I don’t believe he has any beyond a little allowance from his father, who is very poor.”
“And his expectations,” said her ladyship, sharply. “He has great expectations, has he not?”
“I—I—I don’t think he has, my love,” said the old man; “but he’s a doosed fine, manly young fellow, and I like him very much indeed.”
“But you told me that he had great prospects.”
“No, my dear, you said you had heard that he had. I remember it quite well.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Barmouth,” exclaimed her ladyship. “Listen to me.”
“Yes, my dear,” he said, looking at her nervously, and then stooping to rub his leg, an act she stopped by giving his hand a smart slap.