“Nonsense! He’s not such a fool. One does not marry women out of gaming-houses.”
“I wish you will tell him so, for he will pay no heed to anything I say. He will have us believe that the girl is quite something out of the common way, if you please. Of course, it is as clear as daylight. The dear boy is as innocent as a lamb, and full of the most nonsensical romantic notions! That hateful, vulgar, scheming woman lured him to her house, and the niece did the rest. You may depend upon it she meant to have him from the start. Sally Repton tells me that it is positively absurd to see how Adrian worships the wench. There is no doing anything with him. She will have to be bought off: That is why I sent for you.” She observed a distinctly saturnine look in Mr Ravenscar’s eye, and added with something of a snap: “You need not be afraid, Max. I hope I know better than to expect you to lay out any of your odious wealth on the business!”
“I hope you do, aunt, for I shall certainly do no such thing.”
“It would be a very odd thing if anyone were to ask you to,” she said severely. “Not but what you would scarcely notice the expenditure, as wealthy as you are. Indeed, I cannot imagine how you contrive to spend half of your income, and I must say, Max, that nobody would suppose, from the appearance you present, that you are quite the richest man in town.”
“Are you complimenting me upon my lack of ostentation, ma’am?”
“No, I am not,” said her ladyship acidly. “There is nothing I have ever felt the least desire to compliment you on. I wish to heaven there were someone other than yourself to whom I could turn in this fetch. You are hard, and unfeeling, Max, and excessively selfish.”
He sought in the recesses of his pocket for his snuff box, and drew it out, and opened it. “Try Uncle Julius,” he suggested.
“That old woman!” exclaimed Lady Mablethorpe, disposing of her brother-in-law in one contemptuous phrase. “Pray, what could he do to the purpose?”
“Sympathize with you,” said Mr Ravenscar, taking snuff. He saw the vinaigrette come into play, and shut his snuff box with a snap. “Well, you had better tell me who this Cyprian of Adrian’s is.”
“She is that vulgar Lady Bellingham’s niece—or so they pretend,” answered Lady Mablethorpe, abandoning the vinaigrette. “You must know Eliza Bellingham! She keeps a gaming-house in St James’s Square.”