Delorme
thought Gerald an idler of no account, and perceived in him the sure
signs of a decadence which was rapidly drawing the English aristocratic
class into the limbo of things that were. But Gerald was an insatiable
hawker of gossip; and a fashionable painter, with an empire among young
and pretty women, must keep himself well stocked with that article.
So the two walked up and down together, talking pleasantly enough.
Presently Delorme, sweeping a powerful hand before him, exclaimed on
the beauty of the castle and its surroundings.
"Yes--a pretty place," said Gerald, carelessly, "and, for once, money
enough to keep it up."
"Your nephew is a lucky fellow. Why don't they marry him."
"No hurry! When it does come off my sister-in-law will do something
absurd."
"Something sentimental? I'll bet you she doesn't! Democracy is all very
well--except when it comes to marriage. Then even idealists like Lady
Tatham knock under."
"I wish you may be right. Anyway, she won't send him to New York!"
"No need! Blue blood--impoverished!--that's my forecast."
Gerald smiled--ungenially.
"Victoria would positively dislike an heiress. Jolly easy to take that
sort of line--on forty thousand a year! But as to birth, the family, in
my opinion, has a right to be considered."
Delorme hesitated a moment, then threw a provocative look at his
companion, the look of the alien to whom English assumptions are
sometimes intolerable.
"Pretty mixed--your stocks--some of them--by now!"
"Not ours.
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