George shook his head. “Bad, very bad! I must say, it’s enough to sour any man. But Louisa’s right, you know: you ought to get married. Won’t do to let the name die out.” An idea occurred to him. “You wouldn’t care to put it about that you’d lost all your money, I suppose?”
“No,” said Sir Richard, “I wouldn’t.”
“I read somewhere of a fellow who went off to some place where he wasn’t known. Devil of a fellow he was: some kind of a foreign Count, I think. I don’t remember precisely, but there was a girl in it, who fell in love with him for his own sake.”
“There would be,” said Sir Richard.
“You don’t like it?” George rubbed his nose, a little crestfallen. “Well, damme if I know what to suggest!”
He was still pondering the matter when the butler announced Mr Wyndham, and a large, portly, and convivial-looking gentleman rolled into the room, ejaculating cheerfully: “Hallo, George! You here? Ricky, my boy, your mother’s been at me again, confound her! Made me promise I’d come round to see you, though what the devil she thinks I can do is beyond me!”
“Spare me!” said Sir Richard wearily. “I have already sustained a visit from my mother, not to mention Louisa.”
“Well, I’m sorry for you, my boy, and if you take my advice you’ll marry that Brandon-wench, and be done with it. What’s that you have there? Madeira? I’ll take a glass.”
Sir Richard gave him one. He lowered his bulk into a large armchair, stretched his legs out before him, and raised the glass. “Here’s a health to the bridegroom!” he said, with a chuckle. “Don’t look so glum, nevvy! Think of the joy you’ll be bringing into Saar’s life!”
“Damn you,” said Sir Richard. “If you had ever had a shred of proper feeling, Lucius, you would have got married fifty years ago, and reared a pack of brats in your image. A horrible thought, I admit, but at least I should not now be cast for the role of Family Sacrifice.”