"Well, Madam, are you too come to assist me in this delightful business?"
"No, Mr. Trevor," in a trembling voice. "I have come to speak to you upon another subject—about Eugene."
"Eugene! what in the world have you got to say about him?"
"He has returned home in much distress; he has been unfortunate, and requires your assistance, though at the same time is fearful of your displeasure."
"The devil he is! well, I am a happy individual. Have I not enough on my hands already," with a vindictive glance at Eustace, "without being bored in this fresh quarter? I suppose he wants his allowance advanced; but be so good as to tell him, Madam, that until I have finished the delectable business in which I am engaged, he must please to wait. What the deuce did he come running down here for, wasting his time and my money. A letter, I should think, would have answered his purpose; really, one would suppose I was made of millions."
"But, Mr. Trevor, I am sorry to say that Eugene's case is of greater, more immediate importance than you imagine. Eugene, I grieve to tell you, has lost a very considerable sum of money at Epsom, and requires an immediate remittance for payment (as it is called) of his debt of honour."
Mr. Trevor changed colour, and an involuntary oath escaped his lips. But something—perhaps it was the glance he saw exchanged between the mother and son—caused him to restrain any further ebullition of the feeling with which this revelation inwardly inspired him.
For he fancied—how unjustly may be imagined—that something of triumphant exultation was expressed in that glance, that it was now the father's favourite on whom was about to descend his displeasure—perhaps the present forfeiture of his former favour. This was most fortunate for Eugene. It turned the course of his passion into another channel.
"And what, allow me to ask," he proceeded with forced composure, "may be the amount of this unfortunate involvement?"
Mrs. Trevor, in a low tone, named the sum.