'Rose—if she marries—must have a name, you know?'
Old Tom hit his knee. 'Then there's a pill for ye to swallow, for he ain't the son of a lord.'
'That's swallowed, Tom. What is he?'
'He's the son of a tradesman, then, my lady.' And Old Tom watched her to note the effect he had produced.
'More 's the pity,' was all she remarked.
'And he 'll have his thousand a year to start with; and he's a tailor, my lady.'
Her ladyship opened her eyes.
'Harrington's his name, my lady. Don't know whether you ever heard of it.'
Lady Jocelyn flung herself back in her chair. 'The queerest thing I ever met!' said she.
'Thousand a year to start with,' Old Tom went on, 'and if she marries— I mean if he marries her, I'll settle a thousand per ann. on the first baby-boy or gal.'