Barnard smiled.
"I have known him since he was a boy at Eton. He is nephew of the famous Earl of Deerehurst who, according to rumour, spends three hundred a year on silk socks, and bathes every morning in scented milk."
Clodagh made an exclamation of disgust.
"What an abominable person!"
Again Barnard smiled.
"Well, I don't quite know," he said tolerantly. "Rumour is generally a yard or two in front of reality. Perhaps Deerehurst is rather a mummified old roué; but then, you know, embalming is a clean process, Mrs. Milbanke, before, as well as after, death. I sometimes wonder whether Valentine won't put the family money to even less harmless use if he ever succeeds to the title. He is next in the succession, but for one feeble life."
Clodagh's eyes opened.
"Really!" she said. "I should never have connected him with so much responsibility."
Barnard looked down at her.
"Responsibility!" he said. "I don't think I should call it responsibility! But what has become of James?"