“Three thousand a year when her uncle dies.”

“A fine fortune, Percival. What sort of a man is this uncle? Old?”

“No⁠—neither old nor young.”

“A good-tempered, freely-living man? Married? No⁠—I think my wife told me, not married.”

“Of course not. If he was married, and had a son, Lady Glyde would not be next heir to the property. I’ll tell you what he is. He’s a maudlin, twaddling, selfish fool, and bores everybody who comes near him about the state of his health.”