"Never you mind, Uncle Peter. You remember what I told you."
"That takes a different man from what you are. If your pa was alive now—"
"But what are we going to do?" cried Psyche.
"First thing you'll do," said Uncle Peter, promptly, "you go write a letter to that beau of your'n, tellin' him it's all off. You don't want to let him be the one to break it because you lost your money, do you? You go sign his release right this minute."
"Yes—you're right, Uncle Peter—I suppose it must be done—but the poor fellow really cares for me."
"Oh, of course," answered the old man, "it'll fairly break his heart. You do it just the same!"
She withdrew, and presently came back with a note which she despatched to Mauburn.
Percival and his mother had continued their dinner, the former shaking his head between the intervals of the old man's lashings, and appearing to hold silent converse with himself.
This was an encouraging sign. It is a curious fact that people never talk to themselves except triumphantly. In moments of real despair we are inwardly dumb. But observe the holders of imaginary conversations. They are conquerors to the last one. They administer stinging rebukes that leave the adversary writhing. They rise to Alpine heights of pure wisdom and power, leaving him to flounder ignobly in the mire of his own fatuity.