Sir George, who was a great talker, proceeded with his complimentary remarks.
“Yes, certainly, one of the most charming houses in London, if not actually the most charming. Astonishing how a place takes its atmosphere and tone from the people who run it! Dear old Rupert is one of the best, and his wife is so tactful and refined.” He gave a little involuntary sigh. “Ah, it is wonderful what wealth can do, combined with tact and manners.”
Young Croxton looked at him wonderingly. That sigh seemed very heartfelt. Sir George was reputed to be wealthy, he surely could not be envious of another man’s riches. He could not be envious either of the tact and manners of his hosts, for he was credited with the possession of both in great abundance.
He caught the young man’s puzzled look, and hastened to explain. “I am not a pauper myself, and I can make a bit of a show when I want to—but of course nothing to compare with this. Rupert is wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice. He thinks in millions, where we little men think only in thousands.”
Richard thought he understood. Sir George’s habits were pretty well-known. He betted on every race; cards and all forms of gambling had for him a fatal allurement. With such weaknesses, a rich man might often find himself temporarily poor.
“You are a lucky young fellow, my dear Richard, to have been brought up under the careful guidance of such a wise mentor as Rupert Morrice. The man is sound to the core; no weaknesses, no failings. He has told me that he has never touched a card in his life, nor made a bet. And yet, withal, he is not a bit of a Puritan.”
Richard was quite aware of the fact that he was a very lucky person; that, thanks perhaps mostly to that old love-affair, he had won the favour of the wealthy financier. But he was not over-pleased to have the fact rubbed into him so very persistently by this smooth-mannered man of the world, whose attitude towards himself, he fancied, always showed a trace of bland superiority.
He wished that he could get away from the too close proximity of the uncle and nephew, and was meditating how best to accomplish his object, when Providence intervened in the shape of Rosabelle Sheldon, who fluttered up to them.
She was a very charming person, this good-looking girl over whose fair head some twenty-two summers had passed. Her blue eyes looked at you with a full unwavering glance that told you there was no meanness or pettiness in her composition, that she was open and frank. She had a fine figure, a splendid complexion, an exquisite mouth, which, when she smiled, revealed perfect teeth. She was a merry-hearted girl, fond of dancing, fond of sport, loving an outdoor life, and of a most equable temper. But sunny as was her normal disposition, she was capable of grave moods when occasion called them forth, and could be very serious when she was deeply moved.
“I am dying for an ice. Please take me and get me one, Dick, that is if I am not interrupting an important conversation,” she said, addressing the young man.