“Boy must be insane,” said Father. “He won’t get in, at any rate—there’s that consolation. I don’t know any man more unfitted for public life.”
“He may learn a wrinkle or two, though, Shelmerdine. A deuced clever wife he’s married, you know.”
“He’ll need a clever wife if he is going to get in as a Rag at Blackhampton. It’s—it’s an act of insanity.”
Then it was that Adela’s young man made his faux pas.
“Married the celebrated actress, didn’t he?” said Adela’s young man.
The only thing to be said for him is that he was not at all well up in recent history.
Silence—complete and rather profound.
“I remember seeing her in a pantomime at Christmas, and I thought she was the jolliest girl I had ever seen—on the stage, I mean.”
The afterthought sounded sincere; and the whole speech was animated by the best of intentions. But it really was not very clever of the young fellow. Yes, young fellow, this was a passage in which you did not shine particularly. Dumbarton’s future duchess scowled at you—it would be idle to pretend that she didn’t—Mother looked daggers; the great Proconsul’s eyebrows said, “Shut up, you young fool,” as audibly as eyebrows could indulge in that expression; and your future father-in-law had that satyr-like air which most people thought so damned unpleasant; but to you, young man, in your heedlessness, these signs and portents were without significance.
Your tenantry will doubtless keep always a warm corner for you in their hearts; and when you lead your charming bride to the altar you will be the recipient of a massive silver tea-service, no doubt; but if you continue in this way it is unlikely that posterity will be able to point out your effigy in marble, and in knee-breeches, too, to its great grandchildren as it walks along Whitehall. Yes, really a very tactless young fellow.