“I would not presume to doubt your Lordship's word.”
“Then, if I were to be personally responsible for such sums as Mr. Carvel may need, I suppose you would be willing to advance them to him.”
“Willingly, willingly, my Lord,” said Mr. Dix, and added immediately: “Your Lordship will not object to putting that in writing? Merely a matter of form, as your Lordship knows, but we men of affairs are held to a strict accountability.”
Comyn made a movement of disgust, took up a pen and wrote out the indorsement.
“There,” he said. “You men of affairs will at least never die of starvation.”
Mr. Dix took the paper with a low bow, began to shower me with protestations of his fidelity to my grandfather's interests, which were one day to be my own,—he hoped, with me, not soon,—drew from his pocket more than sufficient for my immediate wants, said that I should have more by a trusty messenger, and was going on to clear himself of his former neglect and indifference, when Banks announced:
“His honour, Mr. Manners!”
Comyn and I exchanged glances, and his Lordship gave a low whistle. Nor was the circumstance without its effect upon Mr. Dix. With my knowledge of the character of Dorothy's father I might have foreseen this visit, which came, nevertheless, as a complete surprise. For a moment I hesitated, and then made a motion to show him up. Comyn voiced my decision.
“Why let the little cur stand in the way?” he said; “he counts for nothing.”
Mr. Marmaduke was not long in ascending, and tripped into the room as Mr. Dix backed out of it, as gayly as tho' he had never sent me about my business in the street. His clothes, of a cherry cut velvet, were as ever a little beyond the fashion, and he carried something I had never before seen, then used by the extreme dandies in London,—an umbrella.