“I did, my lord,” answered the other; “but Gatheral says there are difficulties.”
“Let the usurers foreclose, then—there is no difficulty in that; and out of a hundred manors I shall scarce miss one,” answered the Duke. “And hark ye, bring me my chocolate.”
“Nay, my lord, Gatheral does not say it is impossible—only difficult.”
“And what is the use of him, if he cannot make it easy? But you are all born to make difficulties,” replied the Duke.
“Nay, if your Grace approves the terms in this schedule, and pleases to sign it, Gatheral will undertake for the matter,” answered Jerningham.
“And could you not have said so at first, you blockhead?” said the Duke, signing the paper without looking at the contents—“What other letters? And remember, I must be plagued with no more business.”
“Billets-doux, my lord—five or six of them. This left at the porter’s lodge by a vizard mask.”
“Pshaw!” answered the Duke, tossing them over, while his attendant assisted in dressing him—“an acquaintance of a quarter’s standing.”
“This given to one of the pages by my Lady ——‘s waiting-woman.”
“Plague on it—a Jeremiade on the subject of perjury and treachery, and not a single new line to the old tune,” said the Duke, glancing over the billet. “Here is the old cant—cruel man—broken vows—Heaven’s just revenge. Why, the woman is thinking of murder—not of love. No one should pretend to write upon so threadbare a topic without having at least some novelty of expression. The despairing Araminta—Lie there, fair desperate. And this—how comes it?”