“Eh, what’s that—letters?” said Vine, as a servant entered the room and handed her master three.
“For you, Mr Pradelle; for you, Harry, and for me. May we open them. Mrs Van Heldre? They may be important.”
“Of course, Mr Vine, of course.”
Pradelle opened his, glanced at it, and thrust it into his pocket.
Harry did likewise.
Mr Vine read his twice, then dropped it upon the table.
“Papa!—father!” cried Louise, starting from her place, and running round to him as he stood up with a fierce angry light in his eyes, and the table was in confusion.
“Tidings at last of the French estates, Mr Pradelle,” whispered Aunt Margaret.
“Papa, is anything wrong? Is it bad news?” cried Louise.
“Wrong! Bad news!” he cried, flashing up from the quiet student to the stern man, stung to the quick by the announcement he had just received. “Van Heldre, old friend, you know how I strove among our connections and friends to place him where he might work and rise and prove himself my son.”