There was no irritation in the last remark: it simply implied that Mr Shield had not acted wisely. Mr Hadleigh did not appear to have observed it.
‘You are aware of his relationship to my children?’
‘Yes; and that your son, Philip, is going out to him. Lucky for your son, I should say.’
‘I do not wish him to go.’
‘Wh—at!’ The exclamation was long drawn out, and its modulations were suggestive of a rapid series of speculations, in which curiosity and doubt were more predominant than surprise.
‘I do not wish him to go,’ repeated Mr Hadleigh, each word passing his lips like the measured stroke of a funeral bell.
‘You take my breath away. Such a chance—such prospects! Shield is reported to be enormously wealthy, and he has no direct heirs.... Pardon me, Mr Hadleigh, but I must say that you would be doing the young man a serious injury if you interfered with his uncle’s wishes.’
In sickness and in sorrow there are people who feel called upon to offer you their sympathy; but there is too often a conventional ring in the expression of it which there is no mistaking, and even bare politeness in the acknowledgment of it becomes irksome. It was in this conventional way that Wrentham uttered his virtuous warning to the parent who was opposing his son’s best interests.
The parent understood, and smiled.
‘Strange as it may seem to you, Mr Wrentham, my desire is that not one of my children should be mentioned in that man’s will.’