“You’re as good as puttin’ a premium on dishonesty. It’s the way people talk these days. ‘Charm!’ Plenty of scamps have got charm; wouldn’t be scamps if they hadn’t, I daresay. Where’s this lovin’-kindness you talk about when it comes to lettin’ down your creditors?”
“Touché, I’m afraid,” muttered Henry.
“If I hadn’t thought of that,” said Lord Charles, “nothing would have induced me to ask for your help.”
“You won’t get it.”
“Then, as I fancy the Americans say, it is just too bad about my creditors. I rather think the poor devils have banked on you, Gabriel.”
“Insufferable impertinence!” shouted Lord Wutherwood, and Roberta heard the angry sibilants whistle through his teeth. “Sulking behind my name, by God! Using my name as a screen for your dishonesty.”
“I didn’t say so.”
“You as good as said so,” shouted Lord Wutherwood. “By God, this settles it.”
The scene which had hitherto maintained the established atmosphere of drawing-room comedy now blossomed agreeably into a more robust type of drama. The brothers set about abusing each other in good round terms and with each intemperate sally their phrases became more deeply coloured with the tincture of Victorian rodomontade. Incredible references to wills, entails, and family escutcheons were freely exchanged. Lord Charles was the first to falter and his brother’s peroration rang out clearly.
“I refuse to discuss the matter any further. You can drag yourself and your fool of a wife and your precious brood through the bankruptcy court. If Deepacres wasn’t entailed I’d see that you never got a penny of Lamprey money. As it is—”