Mr Fakenham begged pardon. Mr Ringwood gave a slight cough. “Sherry, old boy — don’t want to pry into your affairs — wouldn’t offend you for the world! — You ain’t thinking of marrying the lodge-keeper’s daughter, or anything of that kind?”
“No, no! She’s a Wantage — some sort of a cousin, but they don’t own her. Father went through all his blunt, and kicked up a dust of some kind. Before my time. The point is, she’s as well born as you are. Mrs Bagshot brought her up: she’s another of her cousins. You must know the Bagshots!”
Mr Fakenham was suddenly roused to animation. “If she’s a Bagshot, Sherry, I wouldn’t marry her! Now there’s a horrible thing! Do you know that woman has brought out a third one? For anything we know she’s got a string of ’em — and each one worse than the last! Cassandra was bad enough, but have you seen the new one? Tallow-faced girl called Sophy?”
“Lord, yes, I’ve known the Bagshots all my life! Hero’s not like them, I give you my word!”
“Who?” asked Ferdy, his attention arrested.
“Hero. Girl I’m going to marry.”
Ferdy was puzzled. “What do you call her Hero for?”
“It’s her name,” replied Sherry impatiently. “I know it’s a silly name, but damme, it ain’t as silly as Eudora! Besides, I call her Kitten, so what’s the odds?”
“Sherry, where is this girl?” asked Mr Ringwood.
“She’s at Grillon’s. Couldn’t think of anywhere else to take her. Told ’em she was on her way to school, and her abigail broke her leg getting down from the chaise. Best I could think of.”