The next morning he was again more surprised. On coming down to the breakfast-parlour, he found his uncle there before him, walking up and down the room with his hands behind his back. As soon as George had entered, his uncle stopped his walk, and bade him shut the door.
"George," said he, "perhaps you are not very often right, either in what you do or what you say; but last night you were right."
"Sir!"
"Yes, last night you were right. Whatever may have been your father's conduct, you were right to defend it; and, bad as it has been, I was wrong to speak of it as it deserved before you. I will not do so again."
"Thank you, sir," said George, his eyes almost full of tears.
"That is what I suppose the people in the army call an ample apology. Perhaps, however, it may be made a little more ample."
"Sir, sir," said George, not quite understanding him; "pray do not say anything more."
"No, I won't, for I have got nothing more to say; only this: Pritchett wants to see you. Be with him at three o'clock to-day."
At three o'clock Bertram was with Pritchett, and learned from that gentleman, in the most frozen tone of which he was capable, and with sundry little, good-humoured, asthmatic chuckles, that he had been desired to make arrangements for paying to Mr. George regularly an income of two hundred a year, to be paid in the way of annuity till Mr. Bertram's death, and to be represented by an adequate sum in the funds whenever that much-to-be-lamented event should take place.
"To be sure, sir," said Pritchett, "two hundred a year is nothing for you, Mr. George; but—"