The old gentleman rapped his gold-headed cane on the floor, and indulged in a little sharp laugh, not unpleasant to hear. Sidney repressed a smile, and looked significantly at his watch again.
"You wish me gone, young sir," said his uncle.
"Candidly, I see no good result to arise from your stay. My father is of an excitable disposition, and, I am sorry to say, neither so strong nor so well as I could wish. I fear the shock would be too much for him."
"I will take the hint," he said, rising; "I hate scenes, and if there is likely to be a second edition of those covert reproaches with which you have favoured me, why, it is best to withdraw as gracefully as possible, under the circumstances. You will tell him that I have called?"
"Yes, sir."
"You will tell him also—bear this in mind instead of sucking your pen, will you?—that if he owe me no ill-will, he will call on me next—that it is his turn! I never ask a man twice for anything—except for the money he may owe me," he added, drily.
"I will deliver your message, Mr. Hinchford."
"Then I have the honour, sir, to apologize for this intrusion, and to wish you a good evening."
He crossed the room and held out a thin white hand to Sidney, looking very strangely, very intently at him meanwhile. Sidney placed his own within it, almost instinctively, and the two Hinchfords shook hands.
They parted; Sidney thought that he had finally taken his departure, when the door opened, and he reappeared.