“Yes,” said Van Heldre, smiling, “often enough, so are traditions and many of our beliefs about ancestry; but I hope I have enough of what you call the haute noblesse in me to give way, and not attempt to argue the point.”
“No, Mr Van Heldre,” said Aunt Margaret, with a smile of pity and good-humoured contempt; “we have often argued together upon this question, but I cannot sit in silence and hear you persist in that which is not true. No: you have not any Huguenot blood in your veins.”
“My dear madam, I feel at times plethoric enough to wish that the old-fashioned idea of being blooded in the spring were still in vogue. I have so much Huguenot blood in my veins, that I should be glad to have less.”
Aunt Margaret shook her head, and tightened her lips.
“Low Dutch,” she said to herself, “Low Dutch.”
Van Heldre read her thoughts in the movement of her lips.
“Don’t much matter,” he said. “Vine, old fellow, think I shall turn over a new leaf.”
“Eh? New leaf?”
“Yes; get a good piece of marsh, make a dam to keep out the sea and take to keeping cows. What capital cream!”
“Yes, Mr Pradelle,” continued Aunt Margaret; “we are Huguenots of the Huguenots, and it is the dream of my life that Henri should assert his right to the title his father repudiates, and become Comte des Vignes.”