Mrs. Fitzherbert laughed, and at that moment the subject of the conversation appeared. He greeted Mrs. Fitzherbert with extreme cordiality, but to his brother, not forgetful of the terms upon which they had parted, he held out a very frigid hand.
“I must congratulate you on Winnie’s engagement,” said Lord Spratte.
Canon Spratte looked at him coolly and passed his handsome hand through his hair.
“I’m sorry to see that your levity grows more marked every day, Thomas. It seems that increasing years bring you no sense of your responsibilities. I used to hope that your flippancy was due chiefly to the exuberance of youth.”
“It shows what a charmin’ character I have to stand bein’ ragged by my younger brother,” murmured Lord Spratte, calmly. He turned to Mrs. Fitzherbert. “I hate far more the relations who think it their duty to say unpleasant things to your very face.”
“You forget that it’s my name as well as yours that you drag through the dust.”
“The name of Spratte?”
“It was held by the late Lord Chancellor of England,” retorted the Canon, icily.
“Oh, Theodore, don’t bring him in again. I’m just about sick of him. It’s been the curse of my life to be the son of an eminent man. After all it was a beastly job that they stuck him on that silly Woolsack.”
“Have you never heard the saying: ‘De mortuis nil nisi bonum’?”