“When you want it there it is,” said Van Heldre quietly.
“Hope it will be. And now look here; I want to know a little more about the Count.”
“The Count?” said Mrs Van Heldre.
“My nephew, ma’am. And I hope you feel highly honoured at having so distinguished a personage in your husband’s service.”
“What does he mean, dear?”
“Mean, ma’am? Why you know how his aunt has stuffed his head full of nonsense about French estates.”
“Oh! that, and the old title,” cried Mrs Van Heldre. “There, don’t say any more about it, for if there is anything that worries me, it’s all that talk about French descents.”
“Why, hang it, ma’am, you don’t think your husband is a Frenchman, and that my sister, who has made it all the study of her life, is wrong?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care whether my husband’s a Dutchman or a double Dutchman by birth; all I know is he’s a very good husband to me and a good father to his child; and I thank God, Mr Luke Vine, every night that things are just as they are; so that’s all I’ve got to say.”
“Tut—tut! tut—tut! This is all very dreadful, Van,” said Uncle Luke, fastening his basket, and examining his old straw hat to see which was the best side to wear in front; “I can’t stand any more of this. Here, do you want a bit of advice?”