“Well, tell that platter-faced old fidget to take himself off!” said the Viscount irritably. “Never can see when he’s not wanted, and the lord knows I’ve given him a hint times without number!”
“Ah, my b — But I must not call you that, must I? Then let it be Sherry, for that, I collect, is what your cronies, your boon companions, call you, is it not?”
“I don’t see what that’s got to do with it,” responded his nephew. “If you hadn’t taken it into your head to come and live here, you wouldn’t have to call me anything, and that would suit me to a cow’s thumb!”
Mr Paulett shook a finger at him. “Sherry, Sherry, I fear your suit cannot have prospered! But never mind, dear boy! Persevere, and you will see how she will come about!”
The Viscount’s cerulean eyes lit with sudden wrath, and a tide of red coloured his cheeks. “Hell and the devil confound it!” he exclaimed furiously. “So you’re at that, are you? I’ll thank you to be a little less busy about my affairs!”
Lady Sheringham abandoned tactics which appeared unlikely to succeed, and contrived to possess herself of one of his lordship’s hands. This she held between both of hers, squeezing it eloquently, and saying in a low tone: “Dearest Anthony, remember I am your Mother, and do not keep me in suspense! Have you seen dear Isabella?”
“Yes, I have,” growled the Viscount.
“Sit down, my love, beside me. Did you — did you make her an offer?”
“Yes, I did! She won’t have me.”
“Alas! The dearest wish of my heart!” sighed Lady Sheringham. “If I could but see you married to Isabella, I could go in peace!”