“Hold your tongue, gov’nor,” cried Tom. “It was stupid and idiotic of him perhaps, but not one half so stupid and idiotic as some things I see done here.”
“Tom, I do not know what you mean,” cried her ladyship.
“Well, I mean this. It was idiotic to marry Di to liver-pill Goole, as they call him; and ten times more idiotic to encourage that racing cad, Captain Bellman, here; while it was madness to cut Charley Melton adrift, and try to bring things to an understanding between Maude and that hospital dummy, Wilters.”
“Your language, sir, is frightful,” cried her ladyship, whose voice was rising in spite of herself. “Hospital dummy!”
“So he is; I could drive my fist right through his tottering carcase. He’s only fit to stuff and put in a glass case as a warning to young men.”
“I wish—I wish—I wish I could pat him on the back,” muttered Lord Barmouth. “He’s brave as a lion.”
“Sir Grantley Wilters has my consent to pay his addresses to your sister,” said her ladyship with dignity; “and as for your disgusting remarks about Captain Bellman, he comes here with my consent to see your cousin Tryphie, for whom he will be an excellent parti.”
“Parti—funeral party. An excellent corpse,” cried Tom in a rage, “for, damme, I’ll shoot him on his wedding morning before he shall have her.”
“You will have to leave home, sir, and live in chambers,” said her ladyship. “You grow too low for society.”
“What, and let you have your own way here, mother! No, hang it, that you shan’t. You may stop my allowance, but I stop here; so don’t look blank, dad.”