“Ye-es, my boy, I do. But give me your hand, and don’t speak so sharp and angrily to me. I’m—I’m getting old and nervous now, and a very little seems to upset me. I don’t even like to walk amongst the tan-pits now, where I used to run without being a bit afraid. Thank you, my boy, thank you,” he continued, nervously, as Luke caught and held his hand.
“It’s a way I have of speaking, father,” he said. “Angry? With you? Why my dear father, how could I be?”
“I—I don’t know, my boy; but you promise me that you won’t be angry?”
“Not a bit, father,” cried Luke, with assumed cheeriness. “There, dad, I promise you I won’t even be cross if you have been and married a young wife.”
“Me? Married a young wife? Ha! ha! ha! That’s very funny of you, my boy, very funny; but I haven’t done that, Luke; I haven’t done that. I married at eight-and-thirty, Luke, and once was enough. But you won’t be angry?”
“No, no, not a bit. Now come, confess. What is it? I hope you haven’t been investing in some shaky company.”
“Oh no, my boy, not I. My bit of money has all been put in land, every hundred I could spare out of the business. But you said, my boy, you—you wanted to help Mrs Cyril.”
Luke’s countenance changed again, but he nodded, and said hastily—
“Yes, father, of course. What can I do?”
“She—she said—”