“I’ll snaffle him, sir,” he said.
“Poor Jill’s a deuced fright, but for God’s sake, boy, don’t tell her I said so.”
“She’ll wipe the spots out a bit in time. Give the girl a chance.”
Sir Peter grunted laboriously, and unfastened the lower buttons of his waistcoat. His mottled face appeared heavy and lugubrious despite his frequent reversions to the punch-bowl and his confidence in his son’s astuteness.
“It’s deuced hard luck on the wench, Lot,” he said; “and Richard gave her the ugly face, there’s no denying it.”
“I’ll rub that truth into him, sir, never fear.”
“He’s a nice, gentle lad.”
“Richard wants stroking the right way, sir, and taking on the high poetic horse. He’s a man of sentiment, and he’ll swallow the stuff like senna, and thrive on it, by gad! I know my mount, sir,” and Mr. Lot laid a fat forefinger along his nose.
“Well, well,” said the baronet, reflectively, “I don’t want the lass jilted again; we’ve had enough of it before. And Dick Jeffray’s a pleasant lad with a useful pot of money to his name.”
“Don’t I know the color of a guinea, sir?” quoth Mr. Lot, with a thick laugh.