“Yes, sir,” said Thornby, “a lady of my proposing: the beauty of the four parishes—nay, the beauty of the county—damme, I may as well say the beauty of England! I’ll give her name, too: there’s no reason, as I know of, for to keep it back. To Miss Georgiana Foxwell!”
“Miss Georgiana Foxwell,” echoed Everell, wondering, as he drank, whether she could hear herself thus twice honoured in so short a time.
“I suppose you never saw that young lady I proposed, sir,” said Thornby, as he put down his glass and resumed his seat, for the toasts had been drunk standing.
“I am a stranger in this part of England, sir,” Everell answered.
“I take you for a town-bred man. Maybe, then, you’ve met an uncle of hers in London aforetime—one Mr. Robert Foxwell?”
“I have met a Mr. Robert Foxwell—but I cannot truly say I know much of him.”
“The less the better, if truth must be told; he’s a damned supercilious fop! A rogue, too. He hates me like poison, but, for all that, he’ll let me marry his niece.”
“How so, if he hates you?”
“Because,” said Thornby, tapping the drawer of the table with his fingers, “I have that in my possession which makes him consider my wishes. Yes, sir,” and he thrust his hand carelessly into the drawer, till Everell heard a rustle of papers, “I hold the means of keeping Mr. Robert Foxwell in his place. But that’s neither here nor there. Let’s hear your petition, friend; and you might begin with your name, which I don’t remember as how you’ve yet mentioned.”
“I would rather finish than begin with it,” said Everell, “if, when you’ve heard me, you still require it. You may not wish in the future to admit having helped me: if you remain ignorant of my name, you can never be sure.”