Lady Drelincourt walked to the window with a small vase, and took out her great, square, gold-rimmed eye-glass.
“Money’s very tight just now, my lord,” said Barclay aloud.
“That’s right,” said his lordship, in a low tone. “Look here, Barclay. I’d have waited till that old cat had gone, but time’s precious. Look here. I’ve had a nasty hint that hits me very hard. You’ll call me an old fool. Well, I am; but never mind. I shall never have her, but I love that girl of Denville’s, and, damme, sir, I can’t see her go to the bad without stretching out a hand.”
“What have you heard, my lord?” said Barclay, rattling his keys and opening his cash-box.
“There’s some cursed plan afloat—elopement, or that sort of thing—to-night, I think; and we must stop it.”
“We, my lord!” said Barclay, jingling some coin.
“Yes, we. You’re an old friend of Denville’s. I can’t go to him.”
“Who’s the man?” said Barclay.
“Rockley, I think; curse him! Curse all these young, handsome men! Damme, sir, if I were forty years younger I’d be proud to marry her, for she’s a good girl—yes, sir, a good girl.”
Barclay nodded.