With manifest pride he read parts of an epistle which would have left the President of the Divorce Court few doubts as to the relations between the happy pair. The wretched woman’s love tickled his vanity, and to him the pleasure lay chiefly in boasting of it: he uttered with rolling emphasis certain expressions of endearment.
“‘Yours till death,’” he finished. “Good Lord, what rot women write! and the funny thing is that it’s always the same rot. But there’s not much doubt about this, is there? She’s as far gone as she can be.”
“Amiable youth!” said Frank. “Does your mother know that you have struck up an acquaintance with Mrs. Castillyon?”
“Rather! At first the mater thought her a bit vulgar, but she looked her up in the Landed Gentry, and when she found out her grandfather was a lord she thought it must be all right. The mater’s a bit of a snob, you know—her governor was in the City, and she’s got it into her head that the Castillyons will ask us down to Dorsetshire. By Gad, if they do I’ll make things hum.”
Reggie looked at his watch.
“I shall have to be scooting, or I shall be late for tea.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be working?”
“Yes, but I can let that wait. You see, I’m not going up for the exam next time. The mater gave me the fees, and I blued them, so I shall just tell her that I’ve got through. It’ll be all right in the end.”
“Isn’t that very dishonest?”
“Why?” asked Reggie, with surprise. “She keeps me so devilish short, and I must have money somehow. It’ll all be mine when she pegs out, so it can’t matter, you know.”