“Humph; so has Harry—at least he will have some day, I suppose. Yes, he is going to get it out of the usurper’s hands—usurper is the word, isn’t it, Harry?”
Harry gave a kick out with one leg.
“Yes, usurper is the word. He’s going to get the estate some day, Mr Pradelle; and then he is going to be a Count. Of course he will have to give up being Mr Van Heldre’s clerk then.”
“Look here, uncle,” cried the young man hotly; “if you will not lend me the money, you needn’t insult me before my friend.”
“Insult you, my dear boy? Not I. What a peppery fellow you are! Now your aunt will tell you that this is your fine old French aristocratic blood effervescing; but it can’t be good for you.”
“Come along, Vic,” said Harry.
“Oh, of course,” said Pradelle. “I’m sorry, though. Fifty pounds isn’t much, sir; perhaps you’ll think it over.”
“Eh? think it over. Of course I shall. Sorry I can’t oblige you, gentlemen. Good evening.”
“Grinning at us all the time—a miserable old miser!” said Harry, as they began to walk back. “He’d have done it if you hadn’t made such a mess of it, Vic, with your free-and-easy way.”
“It’s precious vexatious, Harry; but take care, or you’ll sling that locket out to sea,” said Pradelle, after they had been walking for about ten minutes. “You’ll have to think about my proposal. You can’t go on like this.”