“No more could Balaklava, papa,” said Pearl, slipping her hand into his arm and looking archly into her father’s face.
“You minx! How dare you contradict me?” said the colonel, scowling down on the saucy brown eyes. “You know very well if it was not for your mother’s sake I would not stay an hour in this country.”
“Mon cher colonel!” protested three Frenchmen in chorus.
“Oh! you are very good fellows, you French, and your climate is not so bad, and Paris is a pleasant enough place; but there is no place like one’s own country.” And the exile heaved a sigh that would have melted a stone.
“England is the most delightful place in the world to live in when one has an estate and a good rent-roll,” said Mr. Kingspring; “but under other circumstances it is not so pleasant.”
“When one is hard up, you mean. I don’t know the place that is pleasant under those circumstances.” And the colonel almost groaned this time.
“Your property is in Devonshire, is it not?” inquired M. de Kerbec, who liked to show off his knowledge of English country geography.
“It is in the moon, sir,” replied Colonel Redacre. “I have a worthy cousin who has a property in Devonshire which it is generally supposed he means to leave to me, which in fact he must leave to me; but unless he leaves something more than the estate as it stands it will be of precious little use, I suspect. A fancy place, sir, a fine, picturesque old place, but brings in nothing and takes a deal of keeping up.”
“He is a very old man, the dean, is he not?” said M. de Kerbec.
“He is nothing of the sort. Am I an old man? He is five years older than I am—a most worthy, excellent man. I wish him a long life; I have no murderous thoughts concerning him. His fortune would be a boon to a family man like myself; but one gets used to dragging the devil by the tail.”