“You see it’s just that,” Cocky pursued with engaging frankness. “When the town’s taken ’em on our word it will be such a slap in the face to her if you won’t let ’em into your house. We must take Willis’s Rooms or some place instead of giving the ball here, but that will make people talk.”
“And cost you money,” said the duke with significance.
“And there’s another thing, you know. He’s gone to ’em through us. Mouse persuaded him. He’ll be rough on us if he hears you set up your back; there might be an awful rumpus; it might be unpleasant for him—the papers would magnify the thing.”
“You seem to make a mountain out of a molehill,” said the duke with suspicion and impatience. “Go to Willis’s Rooms. You can ask any number of shoeblacks there that you please.”
“You don’t see the thing as it is. You’ll get her into trouble with the Prince, and give the Press a lot of brick-bats to shy at him: I know you’d regret that. I shouldn’t have come to bother you if I didn’t think the thing of some importance. After all you can’t reasonably exclude a man received at Court.”
“My bootmaker goes to Court, and my stationer. Very worthy persons, but they don’t dine with me.”
“But Massarene won’t dine with you: we only want him to come to the ball; and it’s her ball and it’s not yours.”
“The house is mine as yet,” said the duke stiffly.
“And will be yours twenty years after I’m tucked up; I’m dead broke—legs and lungs.”
“You have ruined yourself.”