Presently the door opened noisily and, with a gust of keen air that made the squire shiver, a young man entered the room. It was Piers Berkeley, the squire's son. He was dressed as usual in the height of fashion, but presented a bedraggled woebegone aspect now, his finery effectually ruined by the rain.
"Split me, father," he cried in a peculiarly high and affected tone of voice, "I'm verily the most wretched man on earth."
"What is the matter?" said the old man, turning half round. "Why have you left your regiment?"
"Why! Stap my vitals, 'tis what I wish to know. I've rid post from Breda through the most villainous rain ever I saw. Look, I'm splashed to the eyes; my third best wig is utterly ruined; the colour of my waistcoat has run; 'twas a heavenly puce, and I'll be even with the tailor, hang him! that swore the colour was fast. As for my new jack-boots—look 'ee, they're not fit for a ploughman. And why! You may well ask."
"Well, you have a reason, I suppose. You want more money for your drunken orgies—is that it?"
"Hark to that, now! Was ever poor wretch so scurvily used by his own father! Why——"
"Come, a truce to your prating. Your reason, sir, and at once."
"A warm welcome, egad! Well, sir, I've a something for you, a billet-doux; ha! ha!"
The squire sprang up with an agility surprising in a man of his years. There was a look of expectancy, almost of joy, in his eyes, and he held forth his hand eagerly.
"Give it me," he said.