“Are they?—little dears! Well, sir, so I was right, then; may I see the letter?”
“There it is.”
Ferrers drew his chair to the fire, and read his own production with all the satisfaction of an anonymous author.
“How kind!—how considerate!—how delicately put!—a double favour! But perhaps, after all, it does not express your wishes.”
“In what way?”
“Why—why—about myself.”
“You!—is there anything about you in it?—I did not observe that—let me see.”
“Uncles never selfish!—mem. for commonplace book!” thought Ferrers.
The uncle knit his brows as he re-perused the letter. “This won’t do, Lumley,” said he very shortly, when he had done.
“A seat in parliament is too much honour for a poor nephew, then, sir?” said Lumley, very bitterly, though he did not feel at all bitter; but it was the proper tone. “I have done all in my power to advance your ambition, and you will not even lend a hand to forward me one step in my career. But, forgive me, sir, I have no right to expect it.”