"And what shall I be then, my Lord?" inquired Titmouse, eagerly.
"Sir, you will of course continue Mr. Titmouse."
"'Pon my life, my Lord—shall I indeed?" he interrupted with a crestfallen air, "must we be called Mr. Titmouse and Lady Drelincourt? Excuse me, my Lord, but it don't sound at all like man and wife."
"Sir, so it always has been, and will be, and so it ever ought to be," replied the earl, gravely.
"Well but, my Lord, (excuse me, my Lord)—but marriage is a very serious thing, my Lord, your Lordship knows"——
"It is, sir, indeed," replied the earl, gloom visibly overspreading his features.
"Suppose," continued Titmouse, "Lady Cicely should die before me?"
The earl, remaining silent, fixed on Titmouse the eye of a FATHER—a father, though a very foolish one; and presently, with a sensible tremor in his voice, replied, "Sir, these are rather singular questions—but," he paused for some moments—"in such a mournful contingency as the one you have hinted at"——
"Oh, my Lord! I humbly beg pardon—of course, I should be, 'pon my soul, my Lord, most uncommon sorry"—interrupted Titmouse, with a little alarm in his manner.
"I was saying, sir—that in such an event, if Lady Drelincourt left no issue, you would succeed to the barony; but should she leave issue, they will be called Honorable"——