Mr. Mostyn turned upon his cousin with some vexation.
"I can't help it, Martin," exclaimed young Arundel; "I can't be mistaken—yes—poor fellow, to think that he should come to this!—you haven't forgotten him, Martin, surely?"
"Forgotten what—forgotten whom? My dear Edward, what do you mean?"
"John Marchmont, the poor fellow who used to teach us mathematics at
Vernon's; the fellow the governor sacked because——"
"Well, what of him?"
"The poor chap with the banner!" exclaimed the boy, in a breathless whisper; "don't you see, Martin? didn't you recognise him? It's Marchmont, poor old Marchmont, that we used to chaff, and that the governor sacked because he had a constitutional cough, and wasn't strong enough for his work."
"Oh, yes, I remember him well enough," Mr. Mostyn answered, indifferently. "Nobody could stand his cough, you know; and he was a vulgar fellow, into the bargain."
"He wasn't a vulgar fellow," said Edward indignantly;—"there, there's the curtain down again;—he belonged to a good family in Lincolnshire, and was heir-presumptive to a stunning fortune. I've heard him say so twenty times."
Martin Mostyn did not attempt to repress an involuntary sneer, which curled his lips as his cousin spoke.
"Oh, I dare say you've heard him say so, my dear boy," he murmured superciliously.