On his return, he took a train to Asherton Hall, in order that he might thank his grandfather. There was no one about when he arrived, and he strode indoors, unannounced. As he reached the bedroom door, Mrs. Ripon was coming out, red in the face and spluttering with rage, arguing with Trimmer, the valet; and the old man’s voice could be heard, raised to a high treble, querulously storming over the usual domestic trifles.
Dick stepped into the strange room, and saluted his relative. 80
“Good-afternoon, grandfather. I’ve called to see you to say good-bye,” he said, cheerily.
“I don’t want to see you, sir,” snapped the old man, raising himself on his hands, and positively spitting the words out. His previous fit of anger flowed into the present interview like a stream temporarily dammed and released.
“I am going away to the war, grandfather, and I may never return.”
“And a good job, too, sir—a good job, too.”
Dick’s teeth were hard set. The insult had to be endured.
“Don’t come asking me for money, sir, because you won’t get it.”
“No, grandfather, I have enough, thank you. Your generosity has touched me, after your close-fis—your talks about economy, I mean.”
“Generosity—eh?” snarled the spluttering old man. “No sarcasm, if you please. You insolent rascal!” He positively clawed the air, and his eyes gleamed. “I’ll teach you your duty to your elders, sir. I’ve signed two checks for you. Do you think I’m going to be bled to death like a pig with its wizen slit?”