When Mrs. Courthope suggested that Lady Florimel should be sent for, he flew into a frightful rage, and spoke as it is to be hoped he had never spoken to a woman before. She took it with perfect gentleness, but could not repress a tear. The marquis saw it, and his heart was touched. "You mustn't mind a dying man's temper," he said.
"It's not for myself, my lord," she answered.
"I know: you think I'm not fit to die; and, damn it! you are right. Never one was less fit for heaven or less willing to go to hell."
"Wouldn't you like to see a clergyman, my lord?" she suggested, sobbing.
He was on the point of breaking out into a still worse passion, but controlled himself. "A clergyman!" he cried: "I would as soon see the undertaker. What could he do but tell me I was going to be damned—a fact I know better than he can? That is, if it's not all an invention of the cloth, as, in my soul, I believe it is. I've said so any time these forty years."
"Oh, my lord! my lord! do not fling away your last hope."
"You imagine me to have a chance, then? Good soul! you don't know any better."
"The Lord is merciful."
The marquis laughed—that is, he tried, failed, and grinned.