“I’ve done.”
Rupert relaxed again. “Y’know, you’ll have to watch it, Dominic,” he said severely. “One in the family’s too much already. Avon’s got a damned nasty way with him, and if you fall into it you’ll find yourself with a whole pack of enemies.” He stopped and scratched his head. “Not but what you’ve got them already, ha’n’t you?”
Vidal shrugged. “I dare say,” he replied indifferently. “I don’t lose sleep over them.”
“Cool fish, ain’t you?” said Rupert, eyeing him. “Ever let anything trouble you?”
The Marquis yawned. I've never found anything worth troubling over.”
“H’m! Not even women?” The thin lips curled. “Least of all women.” Lord Rupert looked solemn. “Won’t do, y’know. Must care about something, Dominic.”
“Sermon, uncle?”
“Advice, my boy. Damn it, there’s something wrong with you, so there is! Never see you but what you’re after some wench or other, and the devil’s in it you don’t care for one of ’em—” He broke off and clapped a hand to his brow. “That’s got it!” he exclaimed. “Put me in mind of what I had to say to you!”
“Oh?” A faint interest sounded in Vidal’s voice. “Have you found a charmer, Rupert? At your age, too!”
“Fiend seize it! D’you think I’m in my dotage!” said his lordship indignantly. “But that’s not it. This is serious, Dominic. Where’s the burgundy? Take a drop, my boy; it won’t do you a mite of harm.” He picked up the bottle, and poured out two glasses. “Ay, it’s serious this tune, I warn you
—What do you think of the wine? Not so bad, eh? Forget where I got it.”
“It’s good,” said the Marquis positively, and poured out two more glasses. “You had it from my cellar.”
“Did I so? I’ll say this for you, Vidal, you've inherited your father’s palate. It’s the best thing I know of either of you.”
The Marquis bowed. “We thank you. What’s your serious warning?”
“I’m just about to tell you, aren’t I? Don’t keep breaking in, my boy; it’s a devilish bad habit.” He drained his glass, and set it down. “That’s cleared my head a trifle. It’s that yellow-headed chit, Dominic. Filly you had on your arm at Vauxhall Gardens t’other night. Can’t remember her name.”
“Well?” said his lordship.
Rupert reached out a long arm for the bottle. “Avon’s got wind of her.”
“Well?”
Rupert turned his head to look at him. “Don’t keep on saying ‘Well,’ burn you!” he said testily. “I’m telling you Avon’s heard things, and he ain’t pleased.”
“Do you expect me to break out in a sweat?” asked Vidal. “Of course my father knows. It’s a habit with him.”
“And a damned bad habit, too,” said Rupert feelingly. “You know your own business best, or, at any rate, you think you do, but if you take my advice, you’ll go easy with—what in hell’s the girl’s name?”
“You can pass over her name.”
“No, I can’t,” contradicted Rupert. “I can’t go on calling her girl, filly, chit, yaller-head; it throws me out.”
“Just as you please,” yawned Vidal. “You’ll forget it in five minutes. Sophia.”
“That’s it,” nodded my lord. “Never could stand the name since I got entangled with a widow called Sophia. D’you know, boy, that woman well-nigh married me?”
“That wasn’t Sophia,” objected Vidal. “That was Maria Hiscock.”
“No, no, that’s a different one,” said Rupert impatiently. “Sophia was years before your time. And she devilish nearly had me. You be warned, Dominic.”
“You are kindness itself,” answered Vidal politely, “I can only repeat what I seem to have said already several times; I do not at this present contemplate marriage.”
“But ain’t this Sophia a thought different from the others?” asked his lordship curiously. “Daughter of a cit? Lay you odds you stir up trouble there.”
“Not I. If it were the sister
Rupert relaxed again. “Y’know, you’ll have to watch it, Dominic,” he said severely. “One in the family’s too much already. Avon’s got a damned nasty way with him, and if you fall into it you’ll find yourself with a whole pack of enemies.” He stopped and scratched his head. “Not but what you’ve got them already, ha’n’t you?”
Vidal shrugged. “I dare say,” he replied indifferently. “I don’t lose sleep over them.”
“Cool fish, ain’t you?” said Rupert, eyeing him. “Ever let anything trouble you?”
The Marquis yawned. I've never found anything worth troubling over.”
“H’m! Not even women?” The thin lips curled. “Least of all women.” Lord Rupert looked solemn. “Won’t do, y’know. Must care about something, Dominic.”
“Sermon, uncle?”
“Advice, my boy. Damn it, there’s something wrong with you, so there is! Never see you but what you’re after some wench or other, and the devil’s in it you don’t care for one of ’em—” He broke off and clapped a hand to his brow. “That’s got it!” he exclaimed. “Put me in mind of what I had to say to you!”
“Oh?” A faint interest sounded in Vidal’s voice. “Have you found a charmer, Rupert? At your age, too!”
“Fiend seize it! D’you think I’m in my dotage!” said his lordship indignantly. “But that’s not it. This is serious, Dominic. Where’s the burgundy? Take a drop, my boy; it won’t do you a mite of harm.” He picked up the bottle, and poured out two glasses. “Ay, it’s serious this tune, I warn you
—What do you think of the wine? Not so bad, eh? Forget where I got it.”
“It’s good,” said the Marquis positively, and poured out two more glasses. “You had it from my cellar.”
“Did I so? I’ll say this for you, Vidal, you've inherited your father’s palate. It’s the best thing I know of either of you.”
The Marquis bowed. “We thank you. What’s your serious warning?”
“I’m just about to tell you, aren’t I? Don’t keep breaking in, my boy; it’s a devilish bad habit.” He drained his glass, and set it down. “That’s cleared my head a trifle. It’s that yellow-headed chit, Dominic. Filly you had on your arm at Vauxhall Gardens t’other night. Can’t remember her name.”
“Well?” said his lordship.
Rupert reached out a long arm for the bottle. “Avon’s got wind of her.”
“Well?”
Rupert turned his head to look at him. “Don’t keep on saying ‘Well,’ burn you!” he said testily. “I’m telling you Avon’s heard things, and he ain’t pleased.”
“Do you expect me to break out in a sweat?” asked Vidal. “Of course my father knows. It’s a habit with him.”
“And a damned bad habit, too,” said Rupert feelingly. “You know your own business best, or, at any rate, you think you do, but if you take my advice, you’ll go easy with—what in hell’s the girl’s name?”
“You can pass over her name.”
“No, I can’t,” contradicted Rupert. “I can’t go on calling her girl, filly, chit, yaller-head; it throws me out.”
“Just as you please,” yawned Vidal. “You’ll forget it in five minutes. Sophia.”
“That’s it,” nodded my lord. “Never could stand the name since I got entangled with a widow called Sophia. D’you know, boy, that woman well-nigh married me?”
“That wasn’t Sophia,” objected Vidal. “That was Maria Hiscock.”
“No, no, that’s a different one,” said Rupert impatiently. “Sophia was years before your time. And she devilish nearly had me. You be warned, Dominic.”
“You are kindness itself,” answered Vidal politely, “I can only repeat what I seem to have said already several times; I do not at this present contemplate marriage.”
“But ain’t this Sophia a thought different from the others?” asked his lordship curiously. “Daughter of a cit? Lay you odds you stir up trouble there.”
“Not I. If it were the sister
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