“If all your jests are worth ten thousand a year, I should like to engage you as my court-jester, uncle. You will be worth your weight in silver if you made no more than six jests in a twelvemonth.”
“Well, well; but give me the paper; seriously, I insist—”
“You insist! Oh, uncle! Because the uncle is a jester, it does not follow that the niece must be a fool. Besides, you have owed me this for ten years.”
“Owed it you? What the deuce—”
“Ah, uncle, you are growing old—you are losing your memory. Didn’t you marry me to my poor marquis without a dowry? and didn’t you say you would make it up to me when times improved? Well, in five or six years perhaps I may give you this paper back; but to do so now, dear uncle, would be discourteous; it would be denying you the privilege of doing an act of justice.”
“Upon my life, madam,” exclaimed Sir Francis, plucking up some resolution, “you may keep the paper or not as you see fit; but the engagement is not worth the ink it’s written with; and that you shall find out!”
The marquise regarded her exasperated relative with a charming gleefulness. “But it is only for twenty per cent. you know, uncle,” she said; “and you are able to put out money at double that rate—and more, I dare say.”
“Zounds, ma’am, I protest I am ignorant of your meaning!” cried the baronet indignantly.
“I mean Raffett’s,” was Perdita’s reply.
Sir Francis changed color and countenance at that word, as if it were a spell that threatened his life. “You don’t mean ... I don’t know....” he began.