“That is what I supposed,” agreed Mr Ravenscar, looking sardonic.
Lady Mablethorpe cast him a glance of scornful dislike. “You need not imagine that I am a fool, Max. Of course I went tactfully about the business, never supposing for an instant that I should discover the affair to be more than a—than a—Well, you know what anyone would expect, hearing that a young man had become enamoured of a wench from a gaming-house! You may conceive my dismay when Adrian at once, and without the least hesitation, informed me that he was indeed madly in love with the girl, and meant to marry her! Max, I was so taken aback that I could not utter a word!”
“Has he taken leave of his senses?” demanded Mr Ravenscar.
“He is just like his father,” said Lady Mablethorpe, in a despairing way. “Depend upon it, he has taken some romantic maggot into his head! You know how he was for ever reading tales of chivalry, and such nonsense, when he was a boy! This is what comes of it! I wish I had sent him to Eton.”
Mr Ravenscar raised his eyes, and thoughtfully contemplated the portrait which hung on the wall opposite to him. It depicted a young man in a blue coat, who looked out of the picture with a faint smile in his fine eyes. He was a handsome young man, hardly more than a boy. He wore his own fair hair tied in the nape of his neck, and supported his chin on one slender, beautiful hand. His expression was one of great sweetness, but there was a hint of obstinacy in the curve of his lips, at odd variance with the dreamy softness of his eyes.
Lady Mablethorpe followed the direction of her nephew’s gaze, and herself studied, with misgiving, the portrait of the 4 th Viscount. A despondent sigh escaped her; she transferred her attention to Mr Ravenscar. “What’s to be done, Max?” she asked.
“He can’t marry the wench.”
“Will you speak to him?”
“Certainly not.”
“It is very difficult to do so, I own, but he might be brought to attend to you.”