“Yes; I always come here when I am in town. Why should I change?”
“They are expensive,” said the Major. “How do you mean to pay for them?” Michael Reid turned rather white.
“Sir,” he said, “you have decided not to help me in the future, you have therefore forfeited the right to inquire into my financial position. It is nothing to you, surely, how and in what manner I manage to obtain a living.”
“You cannot go on in the Army, swamped in debt as you are,” said the Major. “It is disreputable, and impossible.”
Michael, who had been exceedingly annoyed at his father’s visit, now stared at him with a certain defiance. Then he looked at him again, and it seemed to him that there was a meaning under the old gentleman’s words. He wondered vaguely if his old father was softening towards him, and if, notwithstanding that unpleasant fracas with regard to Florence Heathcote, he would help him after all. Accordingly, he sank into a chair, and gazed at his parent.
“You have something to say; you have not come up to town for nothing?”
“Most assuredly I have not. Michael—be prepared for astounding news.”
“What, what?” said the young man, his heart beginning to beat.
“You remember that Heathcote girl.”
“Florence?” said Michael. “I shall never forget her.”