"All right, De Vaux, there'll be no more of it. What'll you have? ... Let's break a bottle of champagne."
That was irresistible, and in a few minutes De Vaux's good-humour was restored. Presently he said:
"So you have hopes of winning the fair MacAllister yet?"
"Sure of it when I get her away from here and can use the title as a bait."
"The title! Is it so near as that? Have you had any word?"
"Had word from my agent and solicitor by the last boat. My dearly beloved brother's cough is quite distressing. He has been ordered to Mentone for the winter. The agent does not think that he will ever get there. And, if he does, he's sure that he'll never get back. The old man is taking on about it. He's not at all in love with the idea of the succession of the heir presumptive. They do not think that he will live through the autumn. If October does not finish him, November will."
De Vaux had little reason to love his own parents and family, whoever they were. But the cynical heartlessness of Carteret grated on him. He turned the conversation a little:
"So you intend to leave the island soon?"
"By the next trip of the Hailoong, if the French do not bottle us up for the winter."
"And then you'll bring matters to a conclusion with Miss MacAllister?"