“No, and you ain’t likely to,” said old Mr. Mottisfont. “There, you’d best be gone. I’ve talked enough.”
“Then good-night, sir,” said Edward Mottisfont, getting up with some show of cheerfulness.
The tone of Mr. Mottisfont’s good-night was not nearly such a pleasant one, and as soon as the door had closed upon Edward he flung round towards David Blake with an angry “What’s the good of him? What’s the good of the fellow? He’s not a business man. He’s not a man at all; he’s an entomologiac—a lepidoptofool—a damn lepidoptofool.”
These remarkable epithets followed one another with an extraordinary rapidity.
When the old gentleman paused for breath David inquired, “What’s the trouble, sir?”
“Oh, he’s muddled the new contract with Stevenson. Thinking of butterflies, I expect. Pretty things, butterflies—but there—I don’t see that I need distress myself. It ain’t me it’s going to touch. It’s Edward’s own look-out. My income ain’t going to concern me for very much longer.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he made a restless movement with his hand.
“It won’t, will it—eh, David? You didn’t mean what you said just now? It was just a flam? I ain’t going to live, am I?”
David hesitated and the old man broke in with an extraordinary energy.
“Oh, for the Lord’s sake, David, I’m not a girl—out with it! How long d’ ye give me?”