“What?”
“Nothing whatever.”
“Why?”
“Because I decline the bequest.”
“Eh?”
“I decline the bequest.”
Lord Southwold pants like a blown horse, his small blue eyes grow large and black; his ruddy face deepens to purple. “Good God! You are mad as a hatter!”
“Are hatters less sane than the rest of society? I am incredulous of the possibility.”
“You can’t mean what you say—you are joking!”
“I am entirely serious. And, if you will allow me to say so, you must be aware that the matter does not, I repeat, in the most remote manner concern you.”