‘You look astounded, and no wonder. ’Tis an honour I don’t often pay young idiots like you. Ouf, man! Look at his dirty jacket. Your father was a rock of sense in comparison. At least, he did not get himself up like a baker’s boy, and go roystering in company with a band of worthless rascals.’
‘I presume, uncle, you have come here for something else besides the pleasure of abusing my father to me.’
‘There he is now, off in a rage. Can’t you keep cool for five minutes, you hot-headed young knave? What concern is it of mine if you choose to die in the workhouse? But there’s your mother. It frets her, and I esteem your mother, young sir.’
Armand lifted his brows discontentedly. He held his tongue, for there was nothing to be said, as he had long ago beaten the weary ground of protest and explanation.
‘The rascal says nothing, thinks himself a great fellow, I’ve no doubt. The Almighty made nothing more contrary and mischievous than boys. They have you by the ears when you want to sit comfortably by your fireside. Finds he’s got a heart too, I hear. Mayhap that will sober him, though I’m doubtful.’
Armand stared, and changed colour like a girl. He eyed his uncle apprehensively, and began to fiddle with his brushes. ‘I—I don’t understand you, sir,’ he said tentatively.
‘Yes, you do, but you think it well to play discretion with me. I’m the girl’s father, and there’s no knowing how I may take it, eh, you young villain?’
The old man pulled his nephew’s ear, and laughed in a low chuckling way peculiar to crusty old gentlemen.
‘Has my mother spoken to you about,—about——?’
‘Suppose she hasn’t, eh? What then?’