“When did you get these notions in your blessed head?” asked John.
“Oh, I’ve had them—It’s not so much for myself, Johnnie—but for you. For if I’m a lord you’ll be a lord too.”
“Lord Potts. Ha, ha, ha!”
“No,” said my father, with some appearance of vexation, “not that; we’ll take our title the way all the lords do, from the estates. I’ll be Lord Brandon, and when I die you’ll get the title.”
“And that’s your little game. Well, you’ve played such good little games in your life that I’ve nothing to say, except—‘Go it!’”
“She’s the one that’ll give me a lift.”
“Well, she ought to be able to do something.”
By this time I concluded that I had done my duty and prepared to retire. I did not wish to overhear any of their conversation. As I walked out of the room I still heard their remarks:
“Blest if she don’t look as if she thought herself the Queen,” said John.
“It’s the diamonds, Johnnie.”