“Dear, dear!” he said. “There is no doubt, my dear sir, of your Palkeney blood—the Palkeneys were always eccentric. But—you’re forgetting something; a very pertinent something. This place is yours! Yours! Everything’s yours! I think I should put my—rather rash and hasty—vow in my pocket, my dear sir!”
Parslewe’s lips became tight again. But they presently relaxed, and he bent forward to the table again, and began to smile.
“If this place and the whole thing is mine, absolutely and entirely,” he said in honeyed accent, “I reckon I can do just what I like with it, what?”
“There’s no man can say you nay!” answered Sir Charles. “It’s—yours!”
“Then I’ll tell you what,” said Parslewe, with one of his beautiful smiles and a wave of his hand. “I’ll give it to these two young people! They’re just suited to each other, and it’ll fit their tastes like a glove. They can get married at once, and settle down here, and I’ll come and see them sometimes, and they can come and see me sometimes at Kelpieshaw. That’s the best way I can see out of the difficulty. We’ll settle it on them and their children——”
But by this time Madrasia’s cheeks were aflame, and she turned on Parslewe with blazing eyes.
“Jimmie!” she exclaimed. “How—how dare you? When will you give up that wicked habit of settling other people’s affairs as if—as if they were so many puppets? Why—why—Mr. Craye has never even asked me to marry him!”
Parslewe turned the full force of his grimmest smile on us.
“Well, my dear!” he retorted leisurely. “It’s his own fault if he hasn’t! I’m sure he’s had plenty of opportunity. But——”
Sir Charles rose to the occasion. He rose literally from his chair, bending towards Parslewe; he even allowed himself to indulge in a slight wink at Parslewe.