George, running an experienced eye over his brother-in-law, felt his soul stir. “B’gad, Richard, I like that! That’s a devilish well-cut coat, ’pon my honour, it is! Who made it?”
Sir Richard lifted an arm, and glanced at his cuff. “Weston, George, only Weston.”
“George!” said Louisa awfully.
Sir Richard smiled faintly, and crossed the room to his mother’s side. She held out her hand to him, and he bowed over it with languid grace, just brushing it with his lips. “A thousand apologies, ma’am!” he repeated. “I trust my people have looked after you—er— all of you?” His lazy glance swept the room. “Dear me!” he said. “George, you are near to it: oblige me, my dear fellow, by pulling the bell!”
“We do not need any refreshment, I thank you, Richard,” said Louisa.
The faint, sweet smile silenced her as none of her husband’s expostulations had ever done. “My dear Louisa, you mistake—I assure you, you mistake! George is in the most urgent need of—er—stimulant. Yes, Jeffries, I rang. The Madeira—oh, ah! and some ratafia, Jeffries, if you please!”
“Richard, that’s the best Waterfall I’ve ever seen!” exclaimed George, his admiring gaze fixed on the intricate arrangement of the Corinthian’s cravat.
“You flatter me, George; I fear you flatter me.”
“Pshaw!” snapped Louisa.
“Precisely, my dear Louisa,” agreed Sir Richard amiably.