"Louis," said Sir Roger, one afternoon to his son; "Louis, I have not done by you as I ought to have done—I know that now."
"Nonsense, governor; never mind about that now; I shall do well enough, I dare say. Besides, it isn't too late; you can make it twenty-three years instead of twenty-five, if you like it."
"I do not mean as to money, Louis. There are things besides money which a father ought to look to."
"Now, father, don't fret yourself—I'm all right; you may be sure of that."
"Louis, it's that accursed brandy—it's that that I'm afraid of: you see me here, my boy, how I'm lying here now."
"Don't you be annoying yourself, governor; I'm all right—quite right; and as for you, why, you'll be up and about yourself in another month or so."
"I shall never be off this bed, my boy, till I'm carried into my coffin, on those chairs there. But I'm not thinking of myself, Louis, but you; think what you may have before you if you can't avoid that accursed bottle."
"I'm all right, governor; right as a trivet. It's very little I take, except at an odd time or so."
"Oh, Louis! Louis!"
"Come, father, cheer up; this sort of thing isn't the thing for you at all. I wonder where mother is: she ought to be here with the broth; just let me go, and I'll see for her."