The drab-complexioned, light-haired Alaric responded:
“In my poor opinion—which may be crassly wrong—too much stress has been laid upon the necessity of Susanna’s marrying.” At this point the contrast between the amiable vacuity of Alaric’s face and the Mephistophelian intelligence of his monocled eye was so extraordinary as to hold his listeners spellbound in their chairs. “I think we may take it that the principal feature of the child’s character is—call it determination amounting to obstinacy——”
“Crass obstinacy!” burst from the Earl.
“Pig-headedness!” interjected the Dowager.
“I think I remember hearing that in her nursery days the sure way to make her take a dose of harmless necessary medicine,” pursued Alaric, his left eye fixed upon the door, “was to prepare the potion, pill, or what-not, sweeten, and then carefully conceal it from her. Were she my daughter—which Heaven for—which Heaven has not granted!—I should make her take a husband in the same way.”
“An utterance possibly inspired, but as obscure as the generality. I fear, my dear Alaric——” Lord Beaumaris began. The Dowager cut him short.
“Say, Gus, can’t you let him finish? That’s what I call real mean—to switch a man off just when he’s beginning to grip the track.”
“Mother, I bow to you,” Lord Beaumaris said, purpling with indignation. “Pray continue, Alaric!”
“Hum along, Alaric,” encouraged the Dowager.
Alaric, his countenance as the countenance of a little child, his right eye beaming with mildness, and his left eye as the eye of an intelligent fiend, went on: