Lucy set herself to soothe her injured relative. “You must say to yourself, 'C'est un petit matheur.'”
“Tell myself a falsehood? What shall I gain by that? Let me tell you, it is these minor troubles that send a man to Bedlam. One breeds another, till they swarm and buzz you distracted, and sting you dead. 'Petit maiheur!'' it is a greater one than you have ever encountered since you have been under my wing.”
“It is, dear, it is; but I hope to encounter much greater ones before I am your age.”
“The deuce you do!”
“Or else I shall die without ever having lived—a vegetable, not a human being.”
“Bombast! a 'flower' your lovers will call you.”
“And men of sense a 'weed.' But don't let us discuss me. What I wish to know is the nature of your annoyance, dear.” He explained to her with a groan that he should have to wind up all the affairs of an estate of 8,000 pounds a year, pay the annual and other encumbrances, etc., etc.
“Well, but, dear, you will be quite at home in this, you have such a turn for business.”
“For my own,” shrieked the old bachelor, angrily, “not for other people's. Why, Lucy, there will be half a dozen separate accounts, all of four figures. It is not as if executors were paid. And why are they not paid? There ought to be a law compelling the estates they administer to pay them, and handsomely. It never occurred to me before, but now I see the monstrous iniquity of amateur executors, amateur trustees, amateur guardians. They take business out of the hands of those who live by business. I sincerely regret my share in this injustice. If a snob works, he always expects to be paid! how much more a gentleman. He ought to be paid double—once for the work, and once for giving up his natural ease. Here am I, guardian gratis to a cub of sixteen—the worst age—done school, and not begun Oxford and governesses.”
“Tutors, you mean.”