‘Mrs. Bartholomew Doome,’ he said—‘allow me to introduce to you Horace, my son—at least, my reputed son.’
Bows, chassées, and greetings.
‘Horace—the Misses Doome, Master Horace Doome, and Master Oliver Doome——’
The old gentleman slapped me upon the back again with mighty hand that near drove me down amongst the fire-irons.
He dug me in the ribs:
‘The rogue’s been married this seven years,’ cried he; ‘and now he’s signed the deeds as partner in Malahide and Son, and you’re just in the nick of time, the fool of a lawyer is upstairs—only—look here, Horace, you must, like Doome, sign a bond not to touch the business arrangements—you and he would wreck the counting-house in six months....’
Doome took an early opportunity to draw me aside and to whisper to me the grave disappointment it must be to all who respected him if they should discover the real Don Juan, begged me not to expose him, and pointed out the serious loss of prestige he must suffer in the eyes of the British Public; so we sat down together on a sofa and pitied him for his decencies.
Luddy, luddy! how the homely virtues will persist!
The idol of our youth, the dark, mysteriously wicked man—with feet of honest clay and a clean simple heart after all! Even prolific, and——
Well, damn romance, say I....