“How can you be so offensive,” she cried, in a low angry voice; “it is quite disgusting. Listen to me.”
“Yes, my dear.”
“I went to see Lady Merritty about this matter, and Lady Rigby.”
“About my gout, my dear?”
“Do you wish to make me angry, Barmouth?”
“No, my dear.”
“I went to see her about this young man—this Melton, and Lady Merritty told me she believed he had most brilliant expectations. But I’ll be even with her for this. Oh, it was too bad!”
“What’s the matter?” said Tom, joining them.
“Matter!” cried the irate woman. “Why, evidently to gratify some old spite, that wretched woman, Lady Merritty, has been palming off upon us this Mr Melton as a millionaire, and on the strength of it all I have encouraged him here, and only just now refused an offer made by Sir Grantley Wilters. A beggar! An upstart!”
“Bravo, mother!” cried Tom, enthusiastically. “So he is, a contemptible, weak-kneed, supercilious beggar. I hate him.”