“What do you expect from your wife?”
“Three thousand a year when her uncle dies.”
“A fine fortune, Percival. What sort of a man is this uncle? Old?”
“No—neither old nor young.”
“A good-tempered, freely-living man? Married? No—I think my wife told me, not married.”
“Of course not. If he was married, and had a son, Lady Glyde would not be next heir to the property. I’ll tell you what he is. He’s a maudlin, twaddling, selfish fool, and bores everybody who comes near him about the state of his health.”
“Men of that sort, Percival, live long, and marry malevolently when you least expect it. I don’t give you much, my friend, for your chance of the three thousand a year. Is there nothing more that comes to you from your wife?”
“Nothing.”
“Absolutely nothing?”
“Absolutely nothing—except in case of her death.”