“That’s what he calls respect.”
“Uncle, you are pinching me.”
“Be quiet; just look at this young farmer, twenty years old, who keeps the whole farm going.”
“Well, Mr. Douglas, I count for something, too,” cried Meyerhofer, with a somewhat lengthened face.
“No offence to you,” the former answered; “but you have so much to do with your company you naturally cannot bother about such trifles.”
Meyerhofer bowed, flattered, and Paul felt ashamed for him, for he well understood the irony of these words.
Mrs. Douglas, smiling, beckoned him to come to her. She seized his hand and stroked it. “You have grown tall and good-looking,” she said, in her weak, kind voice, “and you have a beautiful beard.”
“But do call him ‘Du,’” interrupted his mother, who seemed to be much easier in her mind than usual. “Paul, ask your godmother.”
“Yes—I entreat you,” said Paul, stammering and blushing anew.
“God bless you, my son,” said Mrs. Douglas; “you have deserved it,” and then her head again sank against the trunk of the tree.