“Except my husband,” said Mrs Van Heldre, beaming.
“Nonsense, ma’am, I don’t trust him a bit. You do as I tell you, Van. Put those notes in your safe till I ask you for them. I had that bit of money in a company I doubted, so I sold out. I shall put it in something else soon.”
“You’re a queer fellow, Luke.”
“Eh? I’m not the only one of my family, am I? What’s to become of brother George when that young scapegrace has ruined him? What’s to become of Louie, when we’re all dead and buried, and out of all this worry and care? What’s to become of my mad sister, who squandered her money on a French scamp, and made what she calls her heart bankrupt?”
“Nearly done questioning?” said Van Heldre, doubling the notes longwise.
“No, I haven’t, and don’t play with that money as if it was your wife’s curl-papers.”
Van Heldre shrugged his shoulders, and placed the notes in his pocket.
“And as I was saying when your husband interrupted me so rudely, Mrs Van Heldre, what’s to become of that boy by and by? Money’s useful sometimes, though I don’t want it myself.”
“All! you needn’t look at me, Mr Luke Vine. It’s of no use for you to pretend to be a cynic with me.”
“Never pretend anything, ma’am,” said Uncle Luke, rising; “and don’t be rude. I did mean to come in and have some conger-pie to-night; now I won’t.”