Harry gave him a very vulgar wink.
“Do,” said Aunt Marguerite. “By the way, I don’t think I told you that though my brother persists in calling himself Vine, our name is des Vignes, and we belong to one of the oldest families in Auvergne.”
“Yes, that’s right, Mr Pradelle,” said the host, nodding pleasantly; “but when a cruel persecution drove us over here, and old England held out her arms to us, and we found a kindly welcome—”
“My dear George!” interposed Aunt Marguerite.
“Let me finish, my dear,” said Mr Vine, good-temperedly. “It’s Mr Pradelle’s last evening here.”
“For the present, George, for the present.”
“Ah, yes, of course, for the present, and I should like him to hear my version too.”
Aunt Marguerite tapped the back of her left hand with her fan impatiently.
“We found here a hearty welcome and a home,” continued Mr Vine, “and we said we can never—we will never—return to the land of fire and the sword; and then we, some of us poor, some of us well-to-do, settled down among our English brothers, and thanked God that in this new Land of Canaan we had found rest.”
“And my dear Mr Pradelle,” began Aunt Marguerite, hastily; but Mr Vine was started, and he talked on.