“My dear Claire! How dense you are! Did I not tell you about Morton’s providential rescue of Lady Drelincourt’s favourite, and of her impassioned admiration of his bravery? She saw him at great disadvantage then; but I am going to arrange with—er—one of the principal tailors, and Morton must now take his place amongst the best dressed bucks on the Parade. With his manly young person, and a few touches in deportment that I can give him, his prospect is sure, I will answer for it.”
“Ha—ha—ha—ha—ha—ha!” roared Morton, bursting out into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.
“Morton!” and the old man turned round fiercely.
“Why, you don’t want me to marry that old female Guy Fawkes, father!”
“Morton! my son! you grieve and pain me. How dare you speak like that of a leader of society—a lady of title, sir—of great wealth. Why, her diamonds are magnificent. I will be plain with you. You have only to play your cards well, and in due course others will be issued—Mr Morton Denville and the Countess of Drelincourt.”
“Why, father, all the fellows would laugh at me.”
“Sir, a man with horses, carriages, servants, a town mansion and country seat, and a large income can laugh at the world.”
“Oh, yes, of course, father; but she’s fifty or sixty, and I’m not twenty.”
“What has that to do with it, sir! How often do men of sixty marry girls of seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen?”
“But she paints, and wears false hair.”