The Corinthian

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The company, ushered by a disapproving butler into the yellow saloon of Sir Richard Wyndham’s house in St James’s Square, comprised two ladies and one reluctant gentleman. The gentleman, who was not much above thirty years of age, but sadly inclined to fat, seemed to feel the butler’s disapproval, for upon that dignified individual’s informing the elder of the two ladies that Sir Richard was not at home, he cast a deprecating glance at him, not in the least the glance of a peer of the realm upon a menial, but an age-old look of one helpless man to another, and said in a pleading tone: “Well, then, don’t you think, Lady Wyndham—? Louisa, hadn’t we better—? I mean, no use going in, my love, is there?”

Neither his wife nor his mother-in-law paid any attention to this craven speech. “If my brother is gone out, we will await his return,” said Louisa briskly.

“Your poor Papa was always out when one wanted him,” complained Lady Wyndham. “It is very affecting to me to see Richard growing every day more like him.”

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