"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,
"I had thought of placing him under your care. I knew you would provide for him."
"I will. Bring him hither," cried Egerton, eagerly. "All that I can do to prove my—regard for a wish of yours." Harley pressed his friend's hand warmly.
"I thank you from my heart; the Audley of my boyhood speaks now. But the young man has decided otherwise; and I do not blame him. Nay, I rejoice that he chooses a career in which, if he find hardship, he may escape dependence."
"And that career is—"
"Letters."
"Letters! Literature!" exclaimed the statesman. "Beggary! No, no,
Harley, this is your absurd romance."
"It will not be beggary, and it is not my romance: it is the boy's. Leave him alone, he is my care and my charge henceforth. He is of her blood, and I said that he had HER eyes."