“In which quarter?”
“Why, there is Miss Gordon; a trifle old, to be sure, but positively rolling in wealth, and rolling her eyes whenever she sees you.”
Sir Digby muttered something about a bag of broken bottles, but D’Orsay went on,—
“I’d marry her; ’pon honour I should.”
“Think of life with that old hag.”
“Think of life in the Fleet, my friend.”
Sir Digby winced, and for a time made no reply.
“D’Orsay,” he said at last, “I am a man, and, I trust, a gentleman. I’d prefer to marry Gerty even—even—”
“If she were a beggar. Bravo, Digby!” And D’Orsay laughed in the way men of the world do laugh.
“I didn’t say that. I—I—’pon my soul, D’Orsay, I do not know what to do.”