“Which means, I suppose, that a lot of rubbishy ancestors is better than a fortune in the funds. Well—every man according to his own idea. I am particularly glad to say, that I understand no nonsense of the kind. There’s Fred, however, will keep you in countenance. He says—but I’ll be hanged if I believe it—that he is descended from some old king or another, who lived before the invention of breeches.”
“Cutts—don’t be a fool!”
“Oh, by Jove, it’s quite true!” said the irreverent Saxon; “you used to tell me about it every night when you were half-seas over at Shrewsbury. It was capital fun to hear you, about the mixing of the ninth tumbler.”
“Excuse me, sir,” said Mr Mandeville, with an appearance of intense interest—“do you indeed reckon kindred with the royal family of Scotland? I have a particular reason personal to myself in the inquiry.”
“Why, if you really want to know about it,” said I, looking, I suppose, especially foolish, for Cutts was evidently trotting me out, and I more than half suspected his companion—“I do claim—but it’s a ridiculous thing to talk of—a lineal descent from a daughter of William the Lion.”
“You delight me!” said Mr Mandeville. “The connection is highly respectable—I have myself some of that blood in my veins, though perhaps of a little older date than yours; for one of my ancestors, Ulric of Mandeville, married a daughter of Fergus the First. I am very glad indeed to make the acquaintance of a relative after the lapse of so many centuries.”
I returned a polite bow to the salutation of my new-found cousin, and wished him at the bottom of the Euxine.
“Will you pardon me, Mr Cutts, if I ask my kinsman a question or two upon family affairs? The older cadets of the royal blood have seldom an opportunity of meeting.”
“Fire away,” said the Saxon, “but be done with it as soon as you can.”