Mrs. Lovell laughed pleadingly for Algernon.
“No; he shall not do it again. It occurred yesterday, and on no other occasion that I am aware of. He presumes that I am as excited as he is himself about the race—”
The lady bowed to a passing cavalier; a smarting blush dyed her face.
“He bets, does he!” said Sir William. “A young man, whose income, at the extreme limit, is two hundred pounds a year.”
“May not the smallness of the amount in some degree account for the betting?” she asked whimsically. “You know, I bet a little—just a little. If I have but a small sum, I already regard it as a stake; I am tempted to bid it fly.”
“In his case, such conduct puts him on the high road to rascality,” said Sir William severely. “He is doing no good.”
“Then the squire is answerable for such conduct, I think.”
“You presume to say that he is so because he allows his son very little money to squander? How many young men have to contain their expenses within two hundred pounds a year!”
“Not sons of squires and nephews of baronets,” said Mrs. Lovell. “Adieu! I think I see a carrier-pigeon flying overhead, and, as you may suppose, I am all anxiety.”
Sir William nodded to her. He disliked certain of her ways; but they were transparent bits of audacity and restlessness pertaining to a youthful widow, full of natural dash; and she was so sweetly mistress of herself in all she did, that he never supposed her to be needing caution against excesses. Old gentlemen have their pets, and Mrs. Lovell was a pet of Sir William's.