“That you are not, my dear,” said Mrs Pendarve, “though I must own that you do worry me a great deal sometimes by being so daring with your boating, climbing and swimming.”
“Oh, but I do take care—I do, really,” said Gwyn, reaching out to lay his hand upon his mother’s arm.
“Yes, just as much as any other thoughtless, reckless young dog would,” grumbled the Colonel. “I’m always expecting to have one of the fishermen or miners come here with a head or an arm or a leg, and say he picked it up somewhere, and does it belong to my son?”
“Really, Arthur, you are too bad,” began Mrs Pendarve.
“He’s only teasing you, ma, dear,” cried Gwyn, laughing. “But I say, father, what were you going to say about my being a Tyre and Sidonian?”
“Eh? Oh! That if you found tin in some gully on the surface, wouldn’t you dig down to find it where it was richer?”
“Can’t dig through granite,” said Gwyn.
“Well, chip out the stone, and by degrees form a deep mine.”
“Yes, I suppose I should, father.”
“Of course it’s impossible to prove how old the mine is, but it is in all probability very ancient.”