“No fear of that,” she interposed; “the old servants will never permit it, and never receive her. But how are you to earn your living and your daily bread?”
“That, he declares, is entirely my affair. Of course he doesn’t expect much from a wooden-headed duffer like me; he knows I’ve no brains, and no, what he calls ‘initiative or push.’ He doesn’t care a rap if I sweep a crossing or a chimney, as long as I am able to maintain myself, become independent, and learn to walk alone.”
“So that is Uncle Richard’s programme!” said Lady Kesters reflectively. “Now, let’s have some tea,” and she proceeded to pour it out. “The little cakes are cold and stodgy, but try these sandwiches. Martin is away to-night—he had to go to a big meeting in Leeds, and won’t be home. I shall send for your things. I suppose you are at your old quarters in Ryder Street?”
“Yes; they have been awfully decent to me, and kept my belongings when I was away.”
“And you must come here for a week, and we will think out some scheme. I wish you could stay on and make your home here. But you know Martin has the same sort of ideas as Uncle Richard; he began, when he was eighteen, on a pound a week, and made his own way, and thinks every young man should do the same.”
“I agree with him there—though it may sound funny to hear me say so, Sis. I hope you don’t imagine I’ve come back to loaf; I shall be only too glad to be on my own.”
“I suppose you have no money at all?” she inquired, as she replenished his teacup.
“I have fifteen pounds, if you call that nothing, all my London kit, a pair of guns, and a gold watch.”
“But what brought you back so suddenly? You did not half explain to me this morning, when you tumbled from the skies.”
“Well, you see,” he began, as he rose and put down his cup, “the Estancia I was on was of the wrong sort, as it happened, and a rotten bad one. Uncle Richard was tremendously keen to deport me, and he took hold of the first thing he heard of, some crazy advice from a blithering old club fogey who did not know a blessed thing about the country. The Valencia Estancia, a horse-breeding one, was far away inland—not one of those nearer Buenos Ayres and civilisation,—it belonged to a native. The proprietor, Vincino, was paralysed from a bad fall, and the place was run by a ruffian called Murcia. I did not mind roughing it; it’s a splendid climate, and I liked the life itself well enough. I got my fill of riding, and a little shooting—duck, and a sort of partridge—and I appreciated the freedom from the tall hat and visiting card.”