“I hope it may. You do not look very well. Are you in health?”
“Oh, never better! If I look a trifle baked to-day that is because Fitz, and Audley, and I had a pretty batch of it last night.” He pulled out his snuff-box and offered it. “Do try some of my mixture! It is famous snuff, quite the thing!”
“Is this the snuff you were given at Christmas? No, I thank you! With Judith’s eyes upon me I dare not be seen taking scented snuff.”
“Well, you very much mistake the matter,” said Peregrine, helping himself and shutting the box. “Even Petersham pronounced it to be unexceptionable!”
“But I care more for Judith’s opinion than for Petersham’s.”
“Oh, lord! That’s nonsensical!” said Peregrine, with brotherly scorn.
He soon took himself off to join Mr. Fitzjohn, and Mr. Taverner, turning to Judith, who sat quietly sewing by the fire, said: “Is he in health? He looks a trifle sickly, I think. Or do I imagine it?”
“He has not been in good health,” Judith replied. “He had a troublesome cough—a chill caught on our journey to Worth, but I believe him to be quite on the mend now.”
“You do right to take him out of London. Another run of bad luck, and he will be quite in the basket, as they say.”
She sighed. “I cannot stop him gaming, cousin. I can only trust in Lord Worth. He is keeping Perry on an allowance, and I believe has an eye to him.”