She had pricked her ears at that, and exclaimed: “Whom can you be thinking of, my dear Horace? If you mean the Flint chit, I have it for a fact that—”
“Pooh! Nothing of the sort!” interrupted Mr. Epworth, waving the Flint chit away with one white and languid hand. “I daresay she has no more than thirty thousand pounds! This gal is so rich she puts ’em all in the shade. They call her the Lady Dives.”
“Who calls her so?” demanded his incredulous relative.
Mr. Epworth again waved his hand, this time in the direction which he vaguely judged to be northward. “Oh, up there somewhere, ma’am! Yorkshire, or some other of those dev’lish remote counties! Daresay she’s a merchant’s daughter: wool, or cotton, or some such thing. Pity, but I shan’t regard it; they tell me she’s charming!”
“I have heard nothing of this! Who is she? Who told you she was charming?”
“Had it from Fleetwood last night, at the Great-Go,” explained Mr. Epworth negligently.
“That rattle! I wish you will not go so often to Watier’s, Horace! I warn you, it is useless to apply to me! I have not a guinea left in the world, and I dare not ask Mr. Penkridge to assist you again, until he has forgotten the last time!”
“Put me in the way of meeting this gal, and I’ll kiss my fingers to Penkridge, ma’am,” responded Mr. Epworth, gracefully suiting the action to the word. “Acquainted with Lady Bridlington, ain’t you? The gal’s staying with her.”
She stared at him. “If Arabella Bridlington had an heiress staying with her she would have boasted of it all over town!”
“No, she wouldn’t. Fleetwood particularly told me the gal don’t want it known. Don’t like being courted for her fortune. Pretty gal, too, by what Fleetwood says. Name of Tallant.”