“Well, Charles, what fortune?” Sir Anthony looked up in some amusement at the young profligate.
“The same as ever. It always is.” Belfort shook his head. “Bad, very bad, but I have a notion that my luck will turn tomorrow, at about eight o’clock.”
“Good Gad, Bel, why at eight?” demanded Mr Molyneux.
The Honourable Charles looked grave. “Angels told me so in a vision,” he said.
There was a shout of laughter.
“Nonsense, Charles, they were prophesying your entry into a spunging house!” This was my Lord Kestrel, leaning on the back of Fanshawe’s chair.
“You see how it is, sir” — Belfort addressed himself plaintively to Prudence. — “They all laugh at me, even when I tell them of a visitation from heaven. Irreligious, damme, that’s what it is.”
There was a fresh outburst of mirth. Through it came Sir Anthony’s deep voice, full of friendly mockery. “You delude yourself, Charles: no angel would visit you unless by mischance. Doubtless a sign from the devil that he is about to claim his own.” He rose, and picked up his snuffbox. “Well, Merriot, I must do myself the pleasure of making my bow to your sister. Upstairs, when I was there, she was surrounded.”
“I’ll lead you to her, sir,” said Prudence readily. “At nine in the morning, Mr Belfort: I shall be with you.”
Sir Anthony went out on Mr Merriot’s arm. Halfway up the broad stairway he said: “It occurs to me you may be in need of a sponsor at White’s, my dear boy. You know you may command me. May I carry your name there?”