“East India director, is he not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Humph!—That will do.”
The clerk brought in the draft, which was put into his pocket-book without being signed; his coat was then buttoned up, and Mr John Forster repaired to the chop-house, at which for twenty-five years he had seldom failed to make his appearance at the hour of three or four at the latest.
It was with a heavy heart that Newton returned to the inn in the Borough, at which he left his father, whom he found looking out of window, precisely in the same seat and position where he had left him.
“Well, Newton, my boy, did you see my brother?”
“Yes, sir; but I am sorry to say that I have little hopes of his being of service to us.”
Newton then entered into a narration of what had passed.
“Why really, Newton,” said his father in his single-heartedness, “I do not see such cause of despair. If he did doubt your being his nephew, how could he tell that you were? and if he had no interest with naval people why it’s not his fault. As for my expecting him to break his spectacles on purpose to buy new ones of me, that’s too much, and it would be foolish on his part. He said that he was very happy to have made your acquaintance, and that he should be glad to see me. I really don’t know what more you could expect. I will call upon him to-morrow, since he wishes it. At five o’clock precisely, don’t you say?”
“No, sir, at one.”