The Massarene pile had been touched by the magic wand which could transform it into fashion. To go to Harrenden House became the amusement of the great and the ambition of all lesser folks. Not to go to Harrenden House became soon a confession that you were nobody yourself. “Tenez la dragée haute!” said their guide, philosopher, and friend; and she made them very exclusive indeed, and would let no one snub them or laugh at them except herself.
“On my soul, she do give worth for her money!” thought William Massarene; and he was pleased to feel that he had not been fooled even when he had bought a barren Scotch estate and compromised his credit in the City by putting a consumptive little sot on the Board of a bank.
“Why don’t you bespeak the Massarene young woman for me, Mouse?” said Brancepeth in the boudoir of Stanhope Street, when he heard of the bust of Dalou and the portrait of Orchardson.
“How exactly like a man!” said his friend, blue fire flashing from her eyes. “A little while ago you were mad about the Countess Lynar!”
“It’s uncommon like a man to get a pot of money when he can!” said Brancepeth with amusement. “If you did your duty by me, you’d bespeak me those loaves and fishes; you do what you like with the bloomin’ cad.”
“I would sooner see you dead than married!”
“I be bound you would,” muttered the young man. “Lord, that’s the sort of thing women call love!”
“Men’s love is so disinterested, we know!” said Mouse with withering contempt.
“You want the young woman for Ronnie,” continued Brancepeth. “That’s your little game. But he won’t take your tip.”
“Why not?”