Such
impeccable virtue naturally suggests an early death--a harp--a halo!
And yet you appear to enjoy robust health. Pray to what do you
attribute your so great immunity from those pleasant weaknesses that
are so frequently a concomitant of strength and youthful vigour--those
charming follies, bewitching foibles that a somewhat rigorous
convention stigmatises as vices--abhorrent word!"
"You mean, sir, what excuse do I offer for not being politely vicious
as seems so much the fashion?"
"I confess you puzzle me, boy, for you are anything but an angel in
pantaloons. I have occasionally thought to remark in you a hint of
unplumbed deeps--of passions as hot and fierce as--"
"Your own, Uncle Jervas?" At this he turned to glare at me rather
haughtily, then his eyes softened, his lips twitched.
"So women do not appeal to you, Peregrine. Pray why?"
"Because woman appeals to me so much--one, sir!"
"Ah, your roving gipsy?"
"Precisely, sir."
"Where is she, at present?"
"I believe in Italy, sir."
"Hum! Your friend Vere-Manville ran across her in Rome, I believe.
When did you hear from her last?"
"One year and ten months ago, sir."
"Painfully exact! And how many letters has she written you, may I
ask?"
"One, sir."
"Hum! You know that the Earl of Wyvelstoke has made her his ward and
heiress, Peregrine?"
"His lordship informed me of the fact, Uncle."
"He corresponds with you, then?"
"Every month without fail.
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