‘My dear Beatrix,’ he said, ‘the more I ruminate upon the subject, the more I am convinced that the Mosaic account is true, and that all the races of men have come from one common centre—in the East.’
‘Then how do you account for the woolly-headed niggers, and the Laplanders, and the people with pink eyes?’ inquired Mr. Scratchell.
‘Climate, my dear sir, climate. A question of atmospheric influences.’
‘Dear Mr. Dulcimer, I have come to ask you a favour,’ said Beatrix.
‘It is granted beforehand, dear child,’ said the Vicar, kissing her hand.
The Aryan races had been particularly amenable to Mr. Dulcimer that morning, and the Vicar, always good-tempered, was absolutely overflowing with benevolence.
‘Oh, but this is a very serious matter,’ interposed Mr. Scratchell, anxious to do his duty. ‘You’ll have to give it your grave consideration.’
‘I’m all attention,’ replied Mr. Dulcimer, with one eye on the Heraclidæ.
Beatrix explained her desire to set Sir Kenrick’s estate free.
‘Well, my love, you have always intended to pay off those charges after your marriage, have you not?’ asked the Vicar, with a business-like air.