“She married a person professionally interested in the restoration of Perpendicular churches,” said Lord Beaumaris, “and though I cannot now recall his name, I remember hearing of his death, and forwarding a brief, condolatory postcard to his widow.”
“Who joined him, wherever he is, six months ago.”
“Dear me!” said Lord Beaumaris, “that is quite too regrettable. However, it is too late in the day to send another postcard addressed to the surviving members of the family.”
“There is only a son,” said Alaric, “and he is the rising artist to whom I suggest that you should offer a commission. He is strong in fresco, and has just executed a series of wall cartoons for the new Naval and Military Idiot Asylum, which will carry his name down to the remotest posterity.”
“Might—I—ah!—ask his name?” said Lord Beaumaris.
“Wopse,” responded Alaric.
Lord Beaumaris shuddered.
“And the Christian prefix?” He closed his eyes in readiness for the coming shock.
“Halcyon.”
Lord Beaumaris opened his eyes, and the Dowager uttered a slight snort of astonishment.