“That is true,” answered Coppinger, carelessly. “I knew you would shrink from the exposure, the disgrace of publication of what has occurred here. I knew you so well that I could reckon beforehand on what you would elect.”
“But, why to Scantlebray? Are there not other asylums?”
“Yes: so long as that boy is placed where he can do no mischief, I care not.”
“Then, if that be so, I have another proposal to make.”
“What is that?” Coppinger stood up.
“If you have any regard for my feelings, any care for my happiness, you will grant my request.”
“Let me hear it.”
“Mr. Menaida is going to Portugal.”
“What!”—in a tone of concentrated rage—“Oliver?”
“Oliver and his father. But the proposal concerns the father.”