"Well, he's rather a sticky sort of person. He thinks there's something particularly interesting in dukes, which makes him a bore."
"Take care, Jacob! Who knows that you won't be a duke yourself some day?"
"What do you mean?" The young man glowered almost fiercely upon his old friend.
"I hear Chudleigh's boy is but a poor creature," said Sir Wilfrid, gravely. "Lady Henry doesn't expect him to live."
"Why, that's the kind that always does live!" cried Delafield, with angry emphasis. "And as for Lady Henry, her imagination is a perfect charnel-house. She likes to think that everybody's dead or dying but herself. The fact is that Mervyn is a good deal stronger this year than he was last. Really, Lady Henry--" The tone lost itself in a growl of wrath.
"Well, well," said Sir Wilfrid, smiling, "'A man beduked against his will,' etcetera. Good-night, my dear Jacob, and good luck to your old pauper."
But Delafield turned back a moment on the stairs.
"I say"--he hesitated--"you won't shirk talking to Lady Henry?"
"No, no. Sunday, certainly--honor bright. Oh, I think we shall straighten it out."
Delafield ran down the stairs, and Sir Wilfrid returned to his warm room and the dregs of his tea.