“Don’t hurry, my dear boy. So you have an estate in France, have you, Mr Pradelle?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Humph; so has Harry—at least he will have some day, I suppose. Yes, he is going to get it out of the usurper’s hands—usurper is the word, isn’t it, Harry?”
Harry gave a kick out with one leg.
“Yes, usurper is the word. He’s going to get the estate some day, Mr Pradelle; and then he is going to be a count. Of course he will have to give up being Mr Van Heldre’s clerk then.”
“Look here, uncle,” cried the young man hotly; “if you will not lend me the money, you needn’t insult me before my friend.”
“Insult you, my dear boy? Not I. What a peppery fellow you are! Now your aunt will tell you that this is your fine old French aristocratic blood effervescing; but it can’t be good for you.”
“Come along, Vic,” said Harry.
“Oh, of course,” said Pradelle. “I’m sorry, though. Fifty pounds isn’t much, sir; perhaps you’ll think it over.”
“Eh? think it over. Of course I shall. Sorry I can’t oblige you, gentlemen. Good-evening.”