"Yes, in their palmy days," said Clive Lancaster; "but not now, when their patrimony is wasted, their lands encumbered with taxes, and their last descendant earning a paltry living in her majesty's service."
"Lady Adela is as poor as you are," said the withered old woman, significantly.
"No?"
"Yes."
"But I thought that the Earl of Eastwood was very rich."
"He was once; but he and his spendthrift sons have made ducks and drakes of the money at the gaming-table. Lady Adela will have no portion at all. She will be compelled to marry a fortune."
"So you have placed yours at her disposal?" he said, with hardly repressed scorn.
"Yes," coolly, "if she takes my nephew with it. But, seriously, Clive, it is the best match for you both. You will have money; she has beauty and exalted station. Married to each other, you two will be a power in the social world; apart, neither of you will count for much. You will have rank, but that will be a mere incumbrance to you without the ability to sustain its dignity properly."
"If you only knew how little I care for social power," he said. "The life of a soldier suits me. I have no great ambition for wealth and power."
"You are no true Lancaster if you are willing to let the old name and the old place run down!" she broke out, indignantly. "Ah, I wish that I might have borne a son to my husband! Then this degenerate scion of a noble race need never have been roused from his dolce far niente to sustain its ancient glory."