“In the first place, I have met with a relation of—of—the Avenels.”
“Indeed! Whom,—Richard Avenel?”
“Richard—Richard—who is he? Oh, I remember, the wild lad who went off to America; but that was when I was a mere child.”
“That Richard Avenel is now a rich, thriving trader, and his marriage is in this newspaper,—married to an Honourable Mrs. M’Catchley. Well, in this country who should plume himself on birth?”
“You did not say so always, Egerton,” replied Harley, with a tone of mournful reproach.
“And I say so now pertinently to a Mrs. M’Catchley, not to the heir of the L’Estranges. But no more of these—these Avenels.”
“Yes, more of them. I tell you I have met a relation of theirs—a nephew of—of—”
“Of Richard Avenel’s?” interrupted Egerton; and then added in the slow, deliberate, argumentative tone in which he was wont to speak in public, “Richard Avenel the trader! I saw him once,—a presuming and intolerable man!”
“The nephew has not those sins. He is full of promise, of modesty, yet of pride. And his countenance—oh, Egerton, he has her eyes.”
Egerton made no answer, and Harley resumed,