‘Voluntarily. We got rather sympathetic. Your uncle—Alfred, I mean—is a remarkable man; but I think he regarded me as a youth of no particular importance. Well, how do things go?’
Amy shook her head.
‘No progress?’
‘None whatever. He can’t work; I begin to be afraid that he is really ill. He must go away before the fine weather is over. Do persuade him to-night! I wish you could have had a holiday with him.’
‘Out of the question now, I’m sorry to say. I must work savagely. But can’t you all manage a fortnight somewhere—Hastings, Eastbourne?’
‘It would be simply rash. One goes on saying, “What does a pound or two matter?”—but it begins at length to matter a great deal.’
‘I know, confound it all! Think how it would amuse some rich grocer’s son who pitches his half-sovereign to the waiter when he has dined himself into good humour! But I tell you what it is: you must really try to influence him towards practicality. Don’t you think—?’
He paused, and Amy sat looking at her hands.
‘I have made an attempt,’ she said at length, in a distant undertone.
‘You really have?’