"No. They couldn't make me their heir. The property is strictly entailed (what is left of it); you need not make yourself miserable imagining you have done me out of anything more than their good-will. George will inherit whatever he has left them to leave."
"It is sad," says she, with downcast eyes.
"Yes. He has been a constant source of annoyance to them ever since he left Eton."
"Where is he now?"
"Abroad, I believe. In Italy, somewhere, or France—not far from a gaming table, you may be sure. But I know nothing very exactly, as he does not correspond with me, and that letter of this morning is the first I have received from my father for four years."
"He must, indeed, hate me," says she, in a low tone. "His elder son such a failure, and you—he considers you a failure, too."
"Well, I don't consider myself so," says he, gaily.
"They were in want of money, and you—you married a girl without a penny."
"I married a girl who was in herself a mine of gold," returns he, laying his hands on her shoulders and giving her a little shake. "Come, never mind that letter, darling; what does it matter when all is said and done?"
"The first after all these years; and the, last—you remember it? It was terrible. Am I unreasonable if I remember it?"