“Then what do you propose doing, sir?”
“To buy my mother's life interest as provided, realize upon the property, and travel,” said Mr. Richard, helping himself to potted grouse.
“You amaze me, Richard. You confound me. Of course you can do as you please. But so sudden a determination. The old house—vases—coins—pictures—scattered—I really—Well, it is your property, of course—and—and—I wish you a very good morning!”
“I mean to do as I please,” soliloquized Rex, as he resumed his breakfast. “Let him sell his rubbish by auction, and go and live abroad, in Germany or Jerusalem if he likes, the farther the better for me. I'll sell the property and make myself scarce. A trip to America will benefit my health.”
A knock at the door made him start.
“Come in! Curse it, how nervous I'm getting. What's that? Letters? Give them to me; and why the devil don't you put the brandy on the table, Smithers?”
He drank some of the spirit greedily, and then began to open his correspondence.
“Cussed brute,” said Mr. Smithers, outside the door. “He couldn't use wuss langwidge if he was a dook, dam 'im!—Yessir,” he added, suddenly, as a roar from his master recalled him.
“When did this come?” asked Mr. Richard, holding out a letter more than usually disfigured with stampings.
“Lars night, sir. It's bin to 'Amstead, sir, and come down directed with the h'others.” The angry glare of the black eyes induced him to add, “I 'ope there's nothink wrong, sir.”