“Hit? No, my dear, certainly not,” cried Mrs Wilton.
“Oh, do be quiet, ma. Father knows what I mean.”
“Well, er—yes, my boy, to be perfectly frank, I have during the past few years made a—er—two or three rather unfortunate speculations, but, as John Garstang says—”
“Oh, hang old Garstang! This is horrible, father; just now, too, when I wanted to bleed you rather heavily.”
“Claud, my darling, don’t, pray don’t use such dreadful language.”
“Will you be quiet, ma! It’s enough to make a fellow swear. Are you quite up a tree, guv’nor?”
“Oh, no, no, my boy, not so bad as that. Things can go oh for years just as before, and, er—in reason, you know—you can have what money you require; but I want you to understand that you must not look forward to having this place, and er—to see the necessity for thinking seriously about a wealthy marriage. You grasp the position now?”
“Dad, it was a regular smeller, and you nearly knocked me out of time. I saw stars for the moment.”
“My dearest boy, what are you talking about?” asked Mrs Wilton, appealingly.
“Oh, bother! But, I say, guv’nor, I’m glad you spoke out to me—like a man.”