“You are only a workman’s son, sir.”
“My father made me a gentleman, mother,” said Richard, taking out a cigarette, “and I have the tastes of a gentleman. May I light this?”
“Smoke if you wish to, Richard,” said Mrs Glaire, quietly. “I have never stood in your way when that was a just one.”
Richard lit his cigarette, threw himself back in his chair with one leg over an arm, and said negligently—
“Well, if I am to be lectured, go on.”
“I am not going to lecture you, my son,” said Mrs Glaire, firmly; “I am only interposing when I see you hesitating on the brink of a precipice.”
“Look here, mother,” cried Richard; “do you want to quarrel?”
“No, Richard, to advise.”
“Then don’t talk stuff, mother.”
“I shall not, Richard, neither shall I let you put me off in what I wish to say. I am going to speak to you about Joseph Banks’ daughter, and about the business.”