“You may go, Lionel,” said she, putting the letter down.
“I just wanted to know, now that you’ve opened your toad, if you have found the jewel, or whether it’s a vulgar error?”
“It’s a vulgar letter, at all events, Lionel,” replied her ladyship, “and concerns you; it is from the shoemaker at Brighton, who requests me to pay him eighteen shillings for a pair of boots ordered by you, and not paid for.”
“Well, my lady, I do owe for the boots, true enough; but it’s impossible for me always to recollect my own affairs, I am so busy with looking after yours.”
“Well, but now you are reminded of them, Lionel, you had better give me the money, and I will send it to him.”
At this moment Lady R— stooped from her chair to pick up her handkerchief. There were some sovereigns lying on the desk, and the lad, winking his eye at me, took one up, and, as Lady R— rose up, held it out to her in silence.
“That’s right, Lionel,” said Lady R—; “I like honesty.”
“Yes, madame,” replied the impudent rogue, very demurely; “like most people who tell their own stories, I was born of honest, but poor parents.”
“I believe your parents were honest; and now, Lionel, to reward you, I shall pay for your boots, and you may keep your sovereign.”
“Thank your ladyship,” replied the lad. “I forgot to say that the cook is outside for orders.”