“Yes, of course—of course, sir. It would be an abominable thing to bring such a charge home to the poor old fellow. Why, I suppose, sir, that even you would not wish that.”
“I should be deeply grieved, my lord,” said Rockley. “Good morning.”
“The scoundrel’s still thinking about Claire,” said the old beau, as he sat gazing after the handsome cavalry officer. “Well, it’s of no use to sit here. I’ll go up to Clode’s, and see if there is any news.”
He trudged slowly along the pier and the Parade, stopping now and then to take a pinch of snuff.
He was indulging in a very big pinch, standing by the edge of the path, when there was the trampling of hoofs, and Cora Dean’s pony-carriage was drawn up by his side.
“Let me drive you there,” said Cora’s deep, rich voice.
“Drive me! Where?” said the old man.
“Where you ought to be going; to the prison to see poor Mr Denville, and get him out. I haven’t patience with you people leaving the poor old man there—you who professed to be his friends.”
“Hah! Yes! No, I don’t think I’ll trouble you, my dear Miss Dean,” said the old man, recovering his balance, and speaking in his old sarcastic tone. “You are such a female Jehu.”
“Such a what?” said Cora.