Viscount Stair shut his book and so turned in his chair that he faced his son.
“Gone to the ball at Kensington,” he answered dryly, “accompanied by Tom Wharton.”
“Why did you permit it?” flashed the Master of Stair.
The father shrugged his shoulders.
“You must manage your own wife, John,” he answered. “Everybody is at the ball. Tom Wharton is as good as another.”
Sir John interrupted him:
“Tom Wharton is the greatest rake in England,” he said. “I do not choose to have him across my threshold—when I returned from Romney this morning you told me Lady Dalrymple was at the Toyshop with him—now you tell me they have gone to the ball together.”
“Why didn’t you go yourself?” asked the Viscount calmly. “Who do you think is to take her about?—she must be seen at Court sometimes.”
“I was better employed,” answered the Master. “You know well enough, my lord, that I have it in hand to crush this rising—this plot—I am but now from one of these Jacobite dens where I have been aping the part of King’s messenger from France.”
“In those clothes?” asked his father sarcastically.