“And the Countess—Louisa’s upstairs, eh?—will she go?”
“She cannot leave the Count—she thinks not.”
“Won’t Caroline go? Caroline can go. She—he—I mean—Caroline can go?”
“The Major objects. She wishes to.”
Mr. Andrew struck out his arm, and uttered, “the Major!”—a compromise for a loud anathema. But the compromise was vain, for he sinned again in an explosion against appearances.
“I’m a brewer, Van. Do you think I’m ashamed of it? Not while I brew good beer, my boy!—not while I brew good beer! They don’t think worse of me in the House for it. It isn’t ungentlemanly to brew good beer, Van. But what’s the use of talking?”
Mr. Andrew sat down, and murmured, “Poor girl! poor girl!”
The allusion was to his wife; for presently he said: “I can’t see why Harriet can’t go. What’s to prevent her?”
Evan gazed at him steadily. Death’s levelling influence was in Evan’s mind. He was ready to say why, and fully.
Mr. Andrew arrested him with a sharp “Never mind! Harriet does as she likes. I’m accustomed to—hem! what she does is best, after all. She doesn’t interfere with my business, nor I with hers. Man and wife.”