“Nothing at all,” replied Sir Richard.
The Major’s eyes positively bulged, and a vein stood out on his heated brow. “You stand there, and say that you mean to do nothing, when your scoundrel of a cousin has eloped with my daughter?”
“Not at all. I mean to do nothing because my cousin has not eloped with your daughter. You must forgive me if I point out to you that I am getting a little weary of your parental difficulties.”
“How dare you, sir? how dare you?” gasped the Major. “Your cousin meets my daughter by stealth in Bath, lures her out at dead of night here, deceives her with false promises, and now— now, to crown all, makes off with her, and you say— you say that you are weary of my difficulties!”
“Very weary of them. If your daughter has left your roof—and who shall blame her?—I advise you not to waste your time and my patience here, but to enquire at Crome Hall whether Mr Piers Luttrell is at home, or whether he also is missing.”
“Young Luttrell! By God, if it were so I should be glad of it! Ay, glad of it, and glad that any man rather than that vicious, scoundrelly whelp of yours, had eloped with Lydia!”
“Well, that is a fortunate circumstance,” said Sir Richard.
“It is nothing of the kind! You know very well it is not young Luttrell! She herself confessed that she had been in the habit of meeting your cousin, and the young dog said in this very room—in this very room, mark you, with you standing by—”
“My good sir, your daughter and my cousin talked a great deal of nonsense, but I assure you they have not eloped together.”
“Very well, sir, very well! Where then is your cousin at this moment?”