"Well, you ought to wonder at her," said Charles in a hectoring voice, blowing a cloud of smoke at a bumble-bee that had alighted on Fanny's dress, and was rubbing its hands together as if in satisfaction at the prosperous times and the plenty of flowers.
"Don't blow smoke at the poor thing. Isn't he fat!—there, he is gone. Why ought I to wonder at her?"
"Because she was married."
"Why shouldn't she be married?"
"Ahem!" said Charles, clearing his throat.
"Why?"
"I meant to say that she should not have loved the Prince."
"Why not? he was awfully good to them. Do you know George, Fanny's husband, must have been very like father; he was like him in face, for we have a miniature of him, but he was like him in other ways, too. He would sit up at Crockfords—what was Crockfords?"
"A kind of club, I believe."
"He would sit up at Crockfords playing cards all night, and he killed a man once by hitting him over the head with a poker; the jury said the man died of apoplexy, but he kept the man's wife and children always afterwards, and that is just what father would have done."