This same keen-sighted world would not regret him
much now and would assuredly mete out to that miserly old screw, his
widow, only as much sympathy as the occasion deserved. Lady Ferriby
would, the world suspected, sell off his lordship's fancy waistcoats,
and proceed to save money to her heart's content. Even the thought of
his club subscriptions, now necessarily to be discontinued, must have
assuaged a large part of the widow's grief. Such, at least, was the
opinion of the clubs themselves, when the news was posted up among the
weather reports and the latest tapes from the House that same evening.
While Lord Ferriby's friends were comfortably endowing him with a few
compensating virtues over their tea and hot buttered toast in Pall Mall
and St. James's Street, Mr. Wade, Tony, and White dined together at the
Hotel of the Old Shooting Gallery at The Hague. The hour was an early
one, and had never been countenanced by Lord Ferriby, but the three men
in whose hands he had literally left his good name did not attach
supreme importance to this matter. Indeed, the banker thought kindly of
six-thirty as an hour at which in earlier days he had been endowed with
a better appetite than he ever possessed now at eight o'clock or later.
While they were at table a telegram was handed to Cornish. It was from
Lord Ferriby's solicitor in London, and contained the advice that Tony
Cornish had been appointed sole executor of his lordship's will.
Pages:
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293