“Let us see Trevanion,” cried my uncle; then, turning to me, he said abruptly, “What family has he?”
“One daughter.”
“No son?”
“No.”
“That must vex the poor, foolish, ambitious man. Oho! you admire this Mr. Trevanion much, eh? Yes, that fire of manner, his fine words, and bold thoughts, were made to dazzle youth.”
“Fine words, my dear uncle,—fire! I should have said, in hearing Mr. Trevanion, that his style of conversation was so homely you would wonder how he could have won such fame as a public speaker.”
“Indeed!”
“The plough has passed there,” said my father.
“But not the plough of care: rich, famous, Ellinor his wife, and no son!”
“It is because his heart is sometimes sad that he would see us.”