“I must speak, George. Mr Van Heldre loves trade.”
“I do, ma’am.”
“Therefore he cannot feel with me.”
“Well, never mind, my dear. Let some one else be Count des Vignes, only let me be in peace, and don’t fill poor Harry’s head with that stuff just before he’s leaving home to go up to the great city, where he will, I am sure, redeem the follies of the past, and prove himself a true man. Harry, my dear boy, we’ll respect Aunt Margaret’s opinions; but we will not follow them out. Van, old fellow, Leslie, Mr Pradelle, a glass of wine. We’ll drink Harry’s health. All filled? That’s right. Harry, my boy, a true honest man is nature’s nobleman. God speed you, my boy; and His blessing be upon all your works. Health and happiness to you, my son!”
“Amen,” said Van Heldre; and the simple old-fashioned health was drunk.
“Eh, what’s that—letters?” said Vine, as a servant entered the room and handed her master three.
“For you, Mr Pradelle; for you, Harry, and for me. May we open them, Mrs Van Heldre? They may be important.”
“Of course, Mr Vine, of course.”
Pradelle opened his, glanced at it, and thrust it into his pocket.
Harry did likewise.