“I’ll give a sweet savour to your family name,” he said with an oath, as he shook his fist at the closed door. Ian Belward sat back and looked at the ceiling reflectively.
“H’m!” he said at last. “What the devil does this mean? Not Andree, surely not Andree! Yet I wasn’t called Zoug-Zoug before that. It was Bagshot’s insolent inspiration at Auvergne. Well, well!”
He got up, drew over a portfolio of sketches, took out two or three, put them in a row against a divan, sat down, and looked at them half quizzically.
“It was rough on you, Andree; but you were hard to please, and I am constant to but one. Yet, begad, you had solid virtues; and I wish, for your sake, I had been a different kind of fellow. Well, well, we’ll meet again some time, and then we’ll be good friends, no doubt.”
He turned away from the sketches and picked up some illustrated newspapers. In one was a portrait. He looked at it, then at the sketches again and again.
“There’s a resemblance,” he said. “But no, it’s not possible. Andree-Mademoiselle Victorine! That would be amusing. I’d go to-morrow and see, if I weren’t off to Fontainebleau. But there’s no hurry: when I come back will do.”
CHAPTER XV. WHEREIN IS SEEN THE OLD ADAM AND THE GARDEN
At Ridley Court and Peppingham all was serene to the eye. Letters had come to the Court at least once every two weeks from Gaston, and the minds of the Baronet and his wife were at ease. They even went so far as to hope that he would influence his uncle; for it was clear to them both that whatever Gaston’s faults were, they were agreeably different from Ian’s. His fame and promise were sweet to their nostrils. Indeed, the young man had brought the wife and husband nearer than they had been since Robert vanished over-sea. Each had blamed the other in an indefinite, secret way; but here was Robert’s son, on whom they could lavish—as they did—their affection, long since forfeited by Ian. Finally, one day, after a little burst of thanksgiving, on getting an excellent letter from Gaston, telling of his simple, amusing life in Paris, Sir William sent him one thousand pounds, begging him to buy a small yacht, or to do what he pleased with it.
“A very remarkable man, my dear,” Sir William said, as he enclosed the cheque. “Excellent wisdom—excellent!”