“I can see what it is—Jack is going to be a thorn in my side for ever,” the Rector was remarking to his wife, who sat near him, doing some useful work. “He never had any idea of the fitness of things. A bailiff, now!—a servant!”
“I wish you would let him take a farm, Herbert—lend him the money to stock one.”
“I know you do; you have said so before.”
Grace sighed. But when she had it on her conscience to say a thing she said it.
“Herbert, you know—you know I have never thought it fair that we should enjoy all the income we do; and——”
“What do you mean by ‘fair’?” interrupted Herbert. “I only enjoy my own.”
“Legally it is yours. Rightly, a large portion of it ought to be Jack’s. It does not do us any good, Herbert, this superfluous income; you only put it by. It does not in the slightest degree add to our enjoyment of life.”
“Do be quiet, Grace—unless you can talk sense. Jack will get no money from me. He ought to be at sea. What right had he to give it up? The Rose of Delhi is expected back now: let him take her again.”
“You know why he will not, Herbert. And he must do something for a living. I wish you would not object to his engaging himself to Robert Ashton. If——”