“And the baronetcy was the very least return that the retiring Prime Minister could make him.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it, auntie?”
“Yes, my dear,” said the lady, laying down one of her secretarial appeals she had that morning received from the enterprising dun of the Society for the Propagation of Moral Maxims. “Yes,” she said, with some show of animation, “the title was honourably earned and bestowed, and some day, Syd, my dear boy, you will be very proud of it. New? Yes, of course it is new.”
“And it’ll grow old, won’t it, auntie?”
“Of course, my dear. And the Lisles, your dear uncle’s people, need not be so proud of their old family title. The Lisle, your uncle’s ancestor, was only a wealthy country gentleman, who bought his baronetcy of King James the First.”
“For a thousand quid, auntie?”
“A thousand pounds, my dear,” said the lady, looking at him wonderingly.
“Yes, auntie; but he was a gentleman.”
“And so is your grandfather, Sydney, my child,” said the lady, rather austerely.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said the “dear boy,” rather sulkily. “The fellows at Loamborough are always chucking the ‘Devil’ in my face.”