“But you can’t get your people in your lodgings to cook dinner for you,” said Harry, entering into this question with feeling, “they don’t know how—and then they won’t—they are dreadfully independent. So we have to do the best we can. And I am not like you, Uncle Henry; in your time I suppose the Joscelyns were swells? but they never were, you know, in my day. I was brought up like that.”
“The Joscelyns of my time, Harry, would never have recognized themselves in your description. They would not have known what swells meant,” said Mr. Henry, rather severely; but he did not enter into details, for indeed, though they were “swells,” the living had always been very plain at the White House.
Then there was a little pause, and Harry felt better after two or three of Mrs. Eadie’s cutlets. He said in a moment of repose,
“I am going off, Uncle Harry, by the train to-night.”
“Are you so? but what are you to do about your luggage? you can’t go without your luggage.”
“But I shall—I’ll ask nothing. I’ll take nothing out of that house.”
“This is foolish, Harry. You should rather take everything you can get; but, however, I hope I know better than to argue with an angry man—or boy. You are quite right to get back to your work.”
“It is about the only thing I have got left,” said Harry, somewhat tragically.
“And you could not have a better thing. But you will not always feel like that. If you would like it, though I don’t know that it is a very hopeful office, I would see your father, Harry.”
“Nobody need see my father on my account,” cried Harry; his lips quivered a little, but nothing save wrath was in his face; “that’s all over. For my part I shouldn’t mind if it were all over together. I hate Liverpool just as I hate Cumberland. I have a great mind to go clean off—”