Sym. (angrily). Yes, I have heard the news; and a pretty man of business you are to invest all your property in an unregistered company!
Ch. Uncle, don’t you turn against me! Belinda is not my wife! I’m a ruined man; and my darlings—my three darlings, whom I love with a fidelity, which, in these easy-going days, is simply Quixotic—will have nothing to say to me. Minnie, your daughter, declines to accompany me to the altar. Belinda, I feel sure will revert to Belvawney, and Maggie is at this present moment hanging round that Scotch idiot’s neck, although she knows that in doing so she simply tortures me. Symperson, I never loved three girls as I loved those three—never! never! and now they’ll all three slip through my fingers—I’m sure they will!
Sym. Pooh, pooh, sir. Do you think nobody loses but you? Why, I’m done out of a thousand a year by it.
Ch. (moodily). For that matter, Symperson, I’ve a very vivid idea that you won’t have to wait long for the money.
Sym. What d’you mean? Oh—of course—I understand.
Ch. Eh?
Sym. Mrs. Macfarlane! I have thought of her myself. A very fine woman for her years; a majestic ruin, beautiful in decay. My dear boy, my very dear boy, I congratulate you.
Ch. Don’t be absurd. I’m not going to marry anybody.
Sym. Eh? Why, then how—? I don’t think I quite follow you.
Ch. There is another contingency on which you come into the money. My death.