"It is. It has been over this many a year, Cyril. I should do wrong to deal otherwise than perfectly plainly with you. Were you to reform anything there may have been amiss in your conduct, to become a model of excellence in the sight of Helstonleigh, I could never admit your name to be associated with mine. The very notion is offensive to me."
Cyril—it was a great wonder—restrained his passion. "Perhaps I had better leave, then?" he said.
"You are welcome to stay until you can find a situation more agreeable to you," replied Mr. Ashley. "Provided you undertake to behave yourself."
"Stay! and for nothing in the end!" echoed Cyril. "No, that I never will! If I must remain a dependant, I'll try it on at something else. I am sick of this."
He untied his apron, dashed it on to the floor, and went out without another word. So furiously did he stamp through the serving-room, that James Meeking turned round to look at him, and Dick, taking a recreative balance at that moment on the edge of an upright coal-scuttle, thought he must be running for the fire-engines. Dick's speculations were disturbed by the sound of the master's voice, calling to him.
He hastened to the counting-house, and was ordered to "take that apron away." Dick picked it up and withdrew with it, folding it carefully against Mr. Cyril should come in. Dick little thought the manufactory had seen the last of him.
Mr. Ashley was indulging in a quiet laugh. "Demeaning himself by entering my manufactory! Disgracing his family—the high blood of the Dares! Poor Cyril! William, do you look at it in the same light?"
William had remained in the room, taking no part whatever in the final contest. He had stood with his back to them, following his occupation. He turned round now.
"Sir, you know I do not."
"You once told me it presented no field for getting on. What was the word you used?—was it ambition? Truly, there's not much ambition attached to it. Nevertheless, I am satisfied with my career, William, although I am only the glove manufacturer, Thomas Ashley."