“'Tis one of Will's usual elegant and polite inventions,” says Maria.
“No,” swore Will, with several of his oaths; “it was no invention of his. Tom Claypool of Norfolk saw 'em both at Ranelagh; and Jack Morris came out of White's, where he heard the story from Harry Warrington's own lips. Curse him, I'm glad of it!” roars Will, slapping the table. “What do you think of your Fortunate Youth, your Virginian, whom your lordship made so much of, turning out to be a second son?”
“The elder brother not dead?” says my lord.
“No more dead than you are. Never was. It's my belief that it was a cross between the two.”
“Mr. Warrington is incapable of such duplicity!” cries Maria.
“I never encouraged the fellow, I am sure you will do me justice there,” says my lady. “Nor did Fanny: not we, indeed!”
“Not we, indeed!” echoes my Lady Fanny.
“The fellow is only a beggar, and, I dare say, has not paid for the clothes on his back,” continues Will. “I'm glad of it, for, hang him, I hate him!”
“You don't regard him with favourable eyes; especially since he blacked yours, Will!” grins my lord. “So the poor fellow has found his brother, and lost his estate!” And here he turned towards his sister Maria, who, although she looked the picture of woe, must have suggested something ludicrous to the humourist near whom she sate; for his lordship, having gazed at her for a minute, burst into a shrill laugh, which caused the poor lady's face to flush, and presently her eyes to pour over with tears. “It's a shame! it's a shame!” she sobbed out, and hid her face in her handkerchief. Maria's stepmother and sister looked at each other. “We never quite understand your lordship's humour,” the former lady remarked, gravely.
“I don't see there is the least reason why you should,” said my lord, coolly. “Maria, my dear, pray excuse me if I have said—that is, done anything, to hurt your feelings.”