He swelled with indignation, as I with pleasure.
“You have gifts, presents from him, no doubt,” he said fiercely. “What do you say to my taking them all back, and throwing them in his face?”
“I say, certainly not,” I answered.
“Ah well!” he said, “you have got them, anyhow; and the thought will wring his covetous soul.”
At this moment a great voice roared, “Johnson, you devil!” down below somewhere.
My father got quickly to his feet.
“Ay,” he answered, to my look; “’tis me, Di—the pseudonym I go by. Fact is, child, I’m temporarily under a financial cloud, and forced to eke out a living, while awaiting the moment of my complete restoration to fortune, by service—that is to say, by taking it, hem!”
“By taking service?”
“Exactly. A sort of elegant cicerone and social introducer to a damned old parvenu curmudgeon, who wants to learn at what lowest outlay to himself he can pose as a gentleman. ’Tis tiresome, though in its way amusing; but I really think I shall have to cut the old rascal on his taste in liquor. For a palate like mine, you know—small beer and blue ruin, faugh! You haven’t change for a guinea, my angelic?”
“Johnson!” roared the voice again.