“You’re a queer fellow, Luke.”
“Eh? I’m not the only one of my family, am I? What’s to become of brother George when that young scape-grace has ruined him? What’s to become of Louie, when we’re all dead and buried, and out of all this worry and care? What’s to become of my mad sister, who squandered her money on a French scamp, and made what she calls her heart bankrupt?”
“Nearly done questioning?” said Van Heldre, doubling the notes longwise.
“No, I haven’t, and don’t play with that money as if it was your wife’s curl-papers.”
Van Heldre shrugged his shoulders, and placed the notes in his pocket.
“And as I was saying when your husband interrupted me so rudely, Mrs Van Heldre, what’s to become of that boy by-and-by? Money’s useful sometimes, though I don’t want it myself.”
“Ah! you needn’t look at me, Mr Luke Vine. It’s of no use for you to pretend to be a cynic with me.”
“Never pretend anything, ma’am,” said Uncle Luke rising; “and don’t be rude. I did mean to come in and have some conger-pie to-night; now I won’t.”
“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.”