“You’re very good, sir. I wish I could think the same.”
“Ah!” he said nervously. “I fancy I know what you mean. It’s that that I came about, Gaskett. You mustn’t go on brooding by yourself for ever in this infernal swamp. It reflects upon me, my boy, and upon Lady Skene. Besides, you’ve got a—a brother up there, you know” (he uttered the word with an obvious effort); “and it won’t do to have scandals started about the proverbial step-relations. You come up to the house, if you want to keep the young lady from coming down here. Its the wise alternative. Let her feed her wilfulness in company—eh?”
“What do you want me to do, sir?”
“Why, take your seat at my table, like a gentleman and a man of sense. We sha’n’t poison you.”
“Forgive my asking, sir. Didn’t she suggest this to you?”
“Who? My wife?”
“O no! Miss Christmas.”
“Why, now I come to think of it, she did mention it—a well-merited reproof, perhaps.”
“I’m beholden to her, of course.”
“You ought to count yourself beholden to me, I think. I don’t know that I’ve ever given you cause, Gaskett, to doubt my friendship.”