“I bet you won’t,” said the last of the Dreevers, with candour. “He’s a frightful man—the limit. Always fussing round like a hen. Gives me a fearful time, I can tell you. Look here, I don’t mind telling you—we’re pals—he’s dead set on my marrying a rich girl.”
“Well, that sounds all right. There are worse hobbies. Any particular rich girl?”
“There’s always one. He sticks me on to one after another. Quite nice girls, you know, some of them, only I want to marry somebody else—that girl you saw me with at the Savoy.”
“Why don’t you tell your uncle?”
“He’d have a fit. She hasn’t a penny. Nor have I, except what I get from him. Of course, this is strictly between ourselves.”
“Of course.”
“I know everybody thinks there’s money attached to the title; but there isn’t—not a penny. When my Aunt Julia married Sir Thomas the whole frightful show was pretty well in pawn. So you see how it is.”
“Ever think of work?” asked Jimmy.
“Work?” said Lord Dreever reflectively. “Well, you know, I shouldn’t mind work, only I’m dashed if I can see what I could do. I shouldn’t know how. Nowadays you want a fearful specialised education, and so on. Tell you what, though, I shouldn’t mind the Diplomatic Service. One of these days I shall have a dash at asking my uncle to put up the money. I believe I shouldn’t be half bad at that. I’m rather a quick sort of chap at times you know. Lots of fellows have said so.”
He cleared his throat modestly, and proceeded.