—And the room: whence he was just escaping, had not his uncle's wheeled-chair filled up the door-way.
“Just in search of you”—cried the querulous voice, which Francis declares goes through his nervous system like a galvanic shock. “Have you written that letter?”
“My dear Sir William—”
“Have you written that letter?”
“No sir, but—”
“Can't wait for 'buts'—I know your ways. There's pen and ink—and—I mean to wait here till the letter is done.”
I thought Francis would have been indignant. And with reason: Sir William, despite his good blood, is certainly a degree short of a gentleman:—but old habit may have force with his nephew, who, without more remonstrance, quietly sat down to write.
A long half hour, only broken by the rustle of Sir William's Times, and Lady Augusta's short cough—she was more nervous than usual, and whispered me that she hoped Mr. Charteris would not offend his uncle, for the gout was threatening. An involuntary feeling of suspense oppressed even me; until, slipping across the room, I saw that a few stray scribblings were the only writing on Francis's sheet of paper.
That intolerable procrastination of his! he would let everything slip—his credit, his happiness—nor his alone. And, the more people irritated him, the worse he was. I thought, in despair, I would try my hand at this incorrigible young man, who makes me often feel as if, clever and pleasing as he is, he were not half good enough for our Penelope.
“Francis”—I held out my watch with a warning whisper. He caught at it with great relief, and closed the letter-case.