“I did not mean that!” said Peregrine hastily. “Moreover, I don’t believe there is the least fear—I mean, chance—of it coming to pass.”
“Possibly not,” said the Earl. “But ‘fear’ was probably the right word. Would you like to continue this conversation, or shall we turn to your own affairs?”
“I thought you would not like it,” said Peregrine, not without a certain satisfaction. “Ay, let us by all means settle the business. I am ready.”
“Well, sit down,” said the Earl, opening one of the drawers in his desk. “This is the deed of settlement I want you to sign.” He took out an official-looking document and gave it to Peregrine.
Peregrine reached out his hand for a pen, but was checked by the Earl’s raised brows.
“I am flattered by this blind trust in my integrity,” Worth said, “but I beg you won’t sign papers without first reading them.”
“Of course I should not do so in the ordinary way! But you are my guardian, ain’t you? Oh lord, what stuff it is! There’s no making head or tail of it!” With which pessimistic utterance Peregrine fortified himself with a gulp of wine, and leaned back in his chair to peruse the document. “I knew what it would be! Aforesaid and hereinafter until there is no sense to be made of it” He raised the glass to his lips again and sipped. Then he lowered it and looked at the Earl. “What is this?” he asked.
The Earl had seated himself at his desk, and was glancing over another of the documents that awaited Peregrine’s signature. “That, my dear Peregrine, is what Brummell would describe as the hot, intoxicating liquor so much drunk by the lower orders. In a word, it is port.”
“Well, I thought it was, but it seems to me to taste very odd.”
“I am sorry that you should think so,” replied the Earl politely. “You have the distinction of being alone in that opinion.”