“I believe, Mr. Carter, that you are acquainted with Miss Dorothea
Foster?”
“I have that pleasure,” said I.
“Who is about to be married to my son, the Earl of Mickleham?”
“That, I believe, is so,” said I. I was beginning to pull myself
together.
“My son, Mr. Carter, is of a simple and trusting disposition. Perhaps
I had better come to the point. I am informed by this letter that, in
conversation with the writer the other day, Archibald mentioned, quite
incidentally, some very startling facts. Those facts concern you, Mr.
Carter.”
“May I ask the name of the writer?”
“I do not think that is necessary,” said she. “She is a lady in whom I
have the utmost confidence.”
“That is, of course, enough,” said I.
“It appears, Mr. Carter--and you will excuse me if I speak plainly--(I
set my teeth) that you have, in the first place, given to my son’s bride
a wedding present, which I can only describe as--”
“A pearl ornament,” I interposed; “with a ruby or two, and--”
“A pearl heart,” she corrected; “er--fractured, and that you explained
that this absurd article represented your heart.”
“Mere badinage,” said I.
“In execrably bad taste,” said she.