“Your what, sir?” cried Tom, in surprise, lifting his eyes from the blue-and-red checked table-cover.
“I said my partner, Tom. Yes, that is what I intend to make you: have intended it for some time. We will have no fly-away London jaunts and junkets. Once my partner, of course the world will understand that you will be also my successor: and I think I shall soon retire.”
Tom had risen from his seat: for once in his life he was agitated. Mr. Paul rose and put his hand on Tom’s shoulder.
“With this position, and a suitable income to back it, Tom, you are a match for Mary Maceveril, or for any other good girl. Go and try her, boy; try your luck.”
“But—it is of no use,” spoke Tom. “You don’t understand, sir.”
“No use! Go and try,”—pushing him towards the door. “My wife was one of the proud Wintertons, you know: how should I have gained her but for trying? I did not depreciate myself, and say I’m not good enough for her: I went and asked her to have me.”
“But suppose it is not Mary Maceveril, sir?—as indeed it is not. Suppose it is somebody nearer—nearer home?”
“No matter. Go and try, I say.”
“I—do—think—you—understand—me, sir,” cried Tom, slowly and dubiously. “I—hope there is no mistake!”
“Rubbish about mistake!” cried old Paul, pushing him towards the door. “Go and do as I bid you. Try.”