“It was a joke! Can’t you see a joke?” protested Burlington.
“Well, I don’t think much of it,” growled Edward, sourly. “Come along to the gunroom.”
“What’s up?” asked Mr. Augustine, in an anxious murmur, a few minutes later, as the two brothers walked along the wide central hallway toward the appointed place.
“Can’t think for the life of me,” replied Edward. “Unless Craven babbled about the baccarat when he got up to town. He’s rather that sort, you know. He kicked about the stakes at the time.”
“Yes—after he’d been hit,” said Augustine. “But if it’s only that, you’ll be an ass to let the old man rot you about it. Just stand up to him, and let him see you feel your position.”
“That’s all right,” rejoined Edward, dubiously, “but what’s the position without money? If anybody could have foreseen what was going to happen—damn it all, I could have married as much as I needed. But as it is, I’ve got Cora on my back, and the kid, and—my God! fancy doing the duke on four thou, a year net! Welldon tells me it can’t be screwed a bit above that. Well, then, how can I afford to cheek Julius? When you come to that he isn’t half a bad sort, you know. He stood my marriage awfully well. Gad, you know, we couldn’t have lived if he hadn’t drawn a check.”
“Let us hope he’ll draw another,” said Augustine. “It’s bad enough to be a pauper duke, but it’s a bailey sight worse to be his brother.”
“What rot!” said Edward. “My kid’s a girl, and you’re free to marry.”
They had come to the door of the morning room. It stood ajar, and Edward pushed it open. Before the fireplace was visible the expected bulk and vast beard of Lord Julius, but the eyes of the brothers intuitively wandered to the window beyond, against which was outlined the figure of a much smaller man.