"Well, you mentioned him."
"Why yes, but only because I couldn't think of any other way of—er—beginning. You were so devilish high and haughty, Bev."
"And what of Clemency?"
"She has promised to—to marry me, next month,—to marry me—me, Bev. Oh, my dear fellow, I'm the very happiest man alive, and, egad, that reminds me! I'm also the discredited and disinherited son of a flinty-hearted Roman."
"What Dick,—do you mean he has—cut you off?"
"As much as ever he could, my dear fellow, which reduces my income by a half. Deuced serious thing, y' know, Bev. Shall have to get rid of my stable, and the coach; 'Moonraker' must go, too, I'm afraid. Yes, Bev," sighed the Viscount, shaking his head at the reflection of his elegant person in the mirror, "you behold in me a beggar, and the cause—Clemency. But then, I know I am the very happiest beggar in all this wide world, and the cause—Clemency!"
"I feared your father would never favor such a match, Dick, but—"
"Favor it! Oh, bruise and blister me!—"
"Have you told Clemency?"
"Not yet—"