“Of course,” said the lady, bitterly. “The Lisles, too, have shown me a good deal of haughtiness, but they were not too proud to see the representative of their family form an alliance with the Smitherses.”
“When uncle had been sold up two or three times.”
“Don’t allude to such matters, Sydney, my child,” said the lady, sternly.
“Can’t help it,” grumbled the boy, sourly, as if his breakfast had not agreed with him, consequent upon his making improper combinations of carbon, acid, and alkali—“it stings a bit. The fellows say uncle wouldn’t have married you if it hadn’t been for the dibs.”
“Sydney, my dear boy, you can afford to look down with contempt upon such evil, envious remarks. Your dear uncle fell deeply in Jove with me, and I with him, and we are extremely happy. The only trouble I have is to combat—er—er—certain little weaknesses of his, and yearnings for the—er—er—the—”
“Turf, auntie. Yes, I know.”
“The racing and the gambling into which he had been led by dissolute companions. But enough of this, my dear. I find I am being unconsciously led into details of a very unsavoury nature. Your uncle is now completely weaned from his old pursuits, and happy as a model country gentleman.”
The “dear boy” winked solemnly at the bronze bust of a great Parliamentary leader on the chimney-piece, and the lady continued—
“In a few days he will address his constituents at the head of the poll as member for Deeploamshire.”
“What price Watcombe?” said the “dear boy,” sharply.