"Oh no," replied Geoff, unwarily. "His father's a very rich man; and Dick is the only child."
"All the same, begging Mr. Colethorne's pardon, if he were twenty times as rich as Crœsus, I think he's making a tremendous mistake in giving his boy a great deal of pocket-money," said Mr. Byrne.
"Well, of course, I shouldn't want as much as he has," said Geoff; "but still——"
"Geoffrey, my boy," said the old gentleman, rising as he spoke, "it strikes me you're getting on a wrong tack. But we'll have some more talk about all this. I don't want to keep your mother waiting, as I promised to talk some more to her this evening. So we'll go upstairs. Some day, perhaps, I'll tell you some of the experiences of my boyhood. I'm glad, by-the-by, to see that you don't take wine."
"No-o," said Geoff. "That's one of the things mother is rather fussy about. I'd like to talk about it with you, sir; I don't see but that at my age I might now and then take a glass of sherry—or of claret, even. It looks so foolish never to touch any. It's not that I care about it, you know."
"At your age?" repeated Mr. Byrne, slowly. "Well, Geoff—do you know, I don't quite agree with you. Nor do I see the fun of taking a thing you 'don't care about,' just for the sake of looking as if those who had the care of you didn't know what they were about."
They were half-way upstairs by this time. Geoff's face did not wear its pleasantest expression as they entered the drawing-room.
"He's a horrid old curmudgeon," he whispered to Vicky; "I believe Elsa's been setting him against me."
Vicky looked at him with reproachful eyes. "Oh, Geoff," she said, "I do think he's so nice."
"You do, do you?" said he. "Well, I don't. I'll tell you what, Vicky; I've a great mind to run away. I do so hate this life. I work ever so much harder than most of the fellows, and I never get any thanks for it; and everything I want is grudged me. My umbrella's all in rags, and I'm ashamed to take it out; and if I was to ask mamma for a new one, they'd all be down on me again, you'd see."