“I know,” said Lord Trafford again, sadly.
“Yes,” continued Lord Selvaine, smoothly. “I dare say there is something in it, but it would take a million, or thereabouts, to put it right. The question is—where is that million to come from?”
“I do not know,” said Trafford.
Lord Selvaine leaned forward, still smoking.
“What will you give me, Traff, if I tell you?” he asked, with a smile.
Trafford looked at him gravely.
“What do you mean?” he said, wearily. “Where is a million of money to come from?”
Lord Selvaine fell back, and regarded his nephew with half-closed lids.
“Let us be plain with each other, Traff,” he said. “It is what no other members of the family are. The House of Belfayre is on the brink of ruin. Your father is in his dotage, and does not recognize the fact; in fact, has forgotten it. But you and I know it. Now, the question is, whether we shall bow to Fate, and consent to sink into the mud, or make an effort to extricate ourselves. Personally, the question does not affect me. I am a bachelor, and have enough for my few and simple wants. But with you, dear boy, it is different. You are the next duke, the head of the family. With you it is a duty and tradition to keep up the old name, the old position.”
“I know,” said Trafford, with a sigh.