Bottles, being nervous, was fidgeting round the room as usual, and his brother, being very much at ease, was standing with his back to the fire, and staring about him. Presently his glance lit upon the blue velvet curtains which shut off the room they were in from the larger saloon that had not been used since Lady Croston’s widowhood, and an idea which had been floating about in his brain suddenly took definite shape and form. He was a prompt man, and in another second he had acted up to that idea.
“George,” he said in a quick, low voice, “listen to me, and for Heaven’s sake don’t interrupt for a minute. You know that I do not like the idea of your marrying Lady Croston. You know that I think her worthless—no, wait a minute, don’t interrupt—I am only saying what I think. You believe in her; you believe that she is in love with you and will marry you, and have good reason to believe it, have you not?”
Bottles nodded.
“Very well. Supposing that I can show you within half an hour that she is perfectly ready to marry somebody else—myself, for instance—would you still believe in her?”
Bottles turned pale. “The thing is impossible,” he said.
“That is not the question. Would you still believe in her, and would you still marry her?”
“Great heavens! no.”
“Good. Then I tell you what I will do for you, and it will perhaps give you some idea of how deeply I feel in the matter; I will sacrifice myself.”
“Sacrifice yourself?”
“Yes. I mean that I will this very evening propose to Madeline Croston under your nose, and I bet you five pounds she accepts me.”