“And you gave him the date of Susan’s coming of age, eh!”
“Yes; I got it out of the family Bible. It was the 27th of August, I remember it well—just the day before they had the pic-nic—when he took Susan off.”
“Humph! The 27th of August,” said Mr Trump, reflectively, as he looked over a little document he had before him, at first carelessly, but in a moment or two more eagerly. “The 27th of August, eh—that’s strange!” He continued to pore upon the mass of papers on his desk, and then he suddenly seized a large, old-fashioned volume that also lay before him. “The twenty-seventh, eh? Then, by George, Miss Kingscott, I’m a born idiot! Hurrah!” he shouted, rising, and dashing the volume to the other end of the room, as if he were taken suddenly mad, and quite alarming the governess, who hastily got up, and cried out—
“Mr Trump! Mr Trump! what is the matter, sir?”
“Matter, eh? Matter enough. I’m a born fool! Why that rascal married the girl before she came of age. She was not of age until the 29th of August; and, by George, the mistake in the figure will spoil every chance he had, and prevent the necessity of your services, or any trial at all!”
“Gracious! Mr Trump, is that really so, and it is only found out now?”
“Fact, madam. I’m a born idiot! Why, the whole thing could have been nipped in the bud at once; and none of us to have seen that thing which was glaring in our faces all the time, and going to let the case come on for trial! Dear! Dear! I’m a born idiot, madam, and so is Sequence, and we’d better now shut up shop!”
“And that will end the case at once?”
“Certainly, at once; why, he’s got no right to claim anything now, as he will know very shortly, from the very wording of the will.”
“I’m glad of it; but I should have liked mine to have been the hand to work his ruin.”