“Fourteen years is a long time, George; you must have had a rough time of it.”
“Yes, pretty rough. I have seen a good deal of irregular service, you know.”
“And never got anything out of it, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes; I have got my bread and butter, which is all I am worth.”
Sir Eustace looked at his brother doubtfully through his eyeglass. “You are modest,” he said; “that does not do. You must have a better opinion of yourself if you want to get on in the world.”
“I don’t want to get on. I am quite content to earn a living, and I am modest because I have seen so many better men fare worse.”
“But now you need not earn a living any more. What do you propose to do? Live in town? I can set you going in a very good lot. You will be quite a lion with that hole in your cheek—by the way, you must tell me the story. And then, you see, if anything happens to me you stand in for the title and estates. That will be quite enough to float you.”
Bottles writhed uneasily in his chair. “Thank you, Eustace; but really I must ask you—in short, I don’t want to be floated or anything of the sort. I would rather go back to South Africa and my volunteer corps. I would indeed. I hate strangers, and society, and all that sort of thing. I’m not fit for it like you.”
“Then what do you mean to do—get married and live in the country?”
Bottles coloured a little through his sun-tanned skin—a fact that did not escape the eyeglass of his observant brother. “No, I am not going to get married, certainly not.”