“Hallo, Joby,” he said “you here? I tell you what, old man, if you would go and stick your teeth into Wilters’ calf—Bah! he hasn’t got a calf!—into his leg, and give him hydrophobia, you’d be doing your master a good turn.”
From that hour a gloom came over the scene. Lady Barmouth was scrupulously polite, but Charley Melton remarked a change. There were no more rides out with Maude; no more pleasant tête-à-têtes: all was smiles carefully iced, and he turned at last to Tom for an explanation.
“I can’t understand it,” he said; “a few days ago my suit seemed to find favour in her eyes; now her ladyship seems to ridicule the very idea of my pretentions.”
“Yes,” said Tom savagely; and he bit his cigar right in half.
“But why, in heaven’s name?”
“Heard you were poor.”
“Well, I never pretended otherwise.”
“No,” said Tom, snappishly; “but I suppose some one else did.”
“Who?” cried Melton, angrily.
“Shan’t tell,” cried Tom; “but mind your eye, my boy, or she’ll throw you over.”