“I should have something of my own, papa,” she said, with downcast eyes.
“Not from me, Madeline. I should not encourage any such venture by the gift of a sixpence. You would have that ten thousand pounds of course, which your wise aunt left you to make ducks and drakes with—if you have not made ducks and drakes of it already.”
“I have done only what Mr Mentore has advised me to do.”
“You’re safe enough in old Mentore’s hands; but—granted you have that—it would not double your husband’s large income. Nine hundred a-year. My dear, what would you do upon that, Gervase and you?”
“I suppose, papa,” said Madeline, “there are thousands to whom it would be wealth, in comparison with those to whom it is poverty.”
“What does that matter?” he cried. “What does any general rule matter? You are individuals, Gervase and you; and to you it would be poverty. I will not consent to marry my daughter to a man who has only five hundred a-year, and no prospect of any more.”
“Papa,” said Madeline, timidly, “his father—would not shut him out for ever. He must be his heir.”
“And so must you be my heir,” said Mr Thursley. “Do you think it safe to calculate on that? I may not die for the next twenty years.”
“Papa!” cried Madeline. “Father!” with quick-springing tears in her eyes.
“Yes, yes, I know. You wouldn’t grudge me a day of it. But Burton is no older than I am; and to wait twenty years for dead men’s shoes is not enlivening. Perhaps, by the way, there is something else your young man means to do,” he added, pausing on his way to the door. “Perhaps he has other plans. He may be going to make his fortune in some other way?”