A brand-new pack with the seal unbroken, and …”
“Silence!” thundered his father. “You bad son! You wicked brother! You—you …” his voice peaked to a high-pitched, senile screech—“to cheat! At cards! Like a low Piccadilly cad—like some swine of a racetrack tout! God! To bring shame and disgrace on an honorable English name, for the sake of some damned, trashy, pinchbeck jewel for some damned, painted London harlot …”
“But—father! Father! Listen! I give you my word of honor that I …”
“Your word of honor? You—you cheat—you swindler—you dare speak of honor?”
“Father!”
“No, no, no! Do not deny! Do not even attempt to deny! I know. Your brother knows. That Higgins person knows. I daresay Tomps knows. But”—and frothing, corroding laughter bubbled to his lips—“don’t you be afraid. The world shall never know. For—God pity me!—you are my first-born son! You are the future Earl of Dealle!”
It had always been so with the earl, with all the Wades of Dealle: a drawling, slangy, ironic outer mask, the result of Eton and the army, beneath which slumbered a lawless, turbulent personality, an atavistic throwback to the mythical Castilian ancestor that would rise like a mighty wind in his brain, suddenly, dramatically, and scotch all sobering impulses. He did not give his son a chance to speak, to explain.
“No, no! Don’t say a word. And—don’t fear! The world will never know!”
