"Certainly not. Sometimes you talk about my—about Caroline Coppin's father, I suppose. I mean the one who made money, not the one who went bankrupt."
"Houses," said Mr. Maliphant; "houses it was."
"Oh!"
"Twelve houses there were, all his own. Two sons and two daughters to divide among. Bob Coppin sold his at once—Bunker bought 'em—and we drank up the money down Poplar-way, him and me and a few friends together, in a friendly and comfortable spirit. A fine time we had, I remember. Jack Coppin was in his father's trade and he lost his money; speculated, he did. Builders are a believin' people. Bunker got his houses too."
"Jack was my cousin Dick's father, I suppose," said Harry. "Go ahead, old boy. The family history is reeling on beautifully. Where did the other houses go?"
But the old man had gone off on another tack. "There were more Coppins," he said. "When I was a boy, to be a Coppin of Stepney was a thing of pride. Josephus' father was church-warden, and held up his head."
"Did he, really?"
"If I hadn't the property to look after, I would show you his tombstone in Stepney church-yard."
"That," said Harry, "would be a great happiness for me. As for Caroline Coppin, now——"
"She was a pretty maid, she was," the old man went on. "I saw her born and brought up. And she married a sojer."