“No, you didn’t mean to do anything of the sort, Luke Vine,” said Mrs Van Heldre tartly; “I know you better than that. If I’ve asked you to come and have a bit of dinner with us like a Christian once I’ve asked you five hundred times, and one might just as well ask the hard rock.”
“Just as well, ma’am; just as well. There, I’m going. Take care of that money, Van. I shall think out a decent investment one of these days.”
“When you want it there it is,” said Van Heldre quietly.
“Hope it will be. And now look here: I want to know a little more about the Count.”
“The Count?” said Mrs Van Heldre.
“My nephew, ma’am. And I hope you feel highly honoured at having so distinguished a personage in your husband’s service.”
“What does he mean, dear?”
“Mean, ma’am? Why, you know how his aunt has stuffed his head full of nonsense about French estates.”
“Oh! that, and the old title,” cried Mrs Van Heldre. “There, don’t say any more about it, for if there is anything that worries me, it’s all that talk about French descents.”
“Why, hang it, ma’am, you don’t think your husband is a Frenchman, and that my sister, who has made it all the study of her life, is wrong?”