“Yah!” said Lord Wutherwood. “Was that display she treated us to just now a sample? Showin’ her legs and droppin’ about in other people’s scarves like a dyin’ duck in a thunderstorm!”
Roberta felt Frid go rigid with hatred. Stephen and Colin thrust their fists into their mouths. Patch snorted and was savagely nudged by Henry.
“… I may tell you, Charles, that I’m plaguely hard pressed myself. Deepacres nearly kills me keepin’ it up. I’m taxed up to the gullet. Looks as if I’ll have to put down the London house. You don’t know the calls there are on me in — well, in my position. When I remember what it’ll end in I sometimes wonder why the devil I take the trouble.”
“What do you mean, Gabriel?”
“I’ve no boy of my own.”
“No.”
“And to be frank with you I don’t imagine Deepacres is likely to survive the treatment of my heirs.”
“You mean Henry.”
“Oh you’ll outlive me, no doubt,” said Lord Wutherwood.
“Then you mean me?