"Oh, no; what have you done?" exclaimed his chum, lifting his handsome head from his lounge amid a cloud of curling, blue cigar-smoke.
"Nothing; I never did anything in my life," in an injured tone, "and I am fain to ask why I am so bitterly persecuted."
"Persecuted?" inquired De Vere, languidly.
"Oh, yes, you can afford to be cool. You are the legal heir to ten thousand a year. You are not at the beck and call of a relative who gives you the most troublesome commissions to execute without so much as saying 'by your leave,'" growled Lancaster.
The young lieutenant laughed lazily.
"You have had a letter from my lady?" he said.
"Yes. Look here, De Vere, I wonder if she thinks I belong to her wholly? Must one be a white slave for the sake of coming into twenty thousand a year?"
"It is worth lots of toadying," declared De Vere, emphatically.
"I used to like Aunt Lydia—rather—before my uncle died," said Lancaster, reflectively. "She was always tart and waspish. I didn't care for it when I didn't have to bear the brunt of it. She rather amused me then, but now I get out of patience with her whims and exactions."
"What is it she wants now?" asked Harry De Vere, lazily.