Sir Thomas Blunt gazed at the envelope again. Joviality and benevolence resumed their thrones.
“And the feminine handwriting,” he chuckled. He eyed the limp peer almost roguishly. “I see, I see,” he said. “Very charming. Quite delightful! Girls must have their little romance. I suppose you two young people are exchanging love-letters all day? Delightful—quite delightful! Don’t look as if you were ashamed of it, my boy. I like it. I think it’s charming.”
Undoubtedly this was the opening. Beyond a question his lordship should have said at this point, “Uncle, I cannot tell a lie. I cannot even allow myself to see you labouring under a delusion which a word from me can remove. The contents of this note are not what you suppose. They run as follows——”
What he did say was, “Uncle, can you let me have twenty pounds?”
Those were his amazing words. They slipped out. He could not stop them.
Sir Thomas was taken aback for an instant, but not seriously. He started as might a man who, stroking a cat, receives a sudden but trifling scratch.
“Twenty pounds, eh?” he said reflectively.
Then the milk of human kindness swept over displeasure like a tidal wave. This was a night for rich gifts to the deserving.
“Why, certainly, my boy, certainly. Do you want it at once?”
His lordship replied that he did, please; and he had seldom said a thing more fervently.