“My father was master before me. And I am my father’s son. I tell you, Lecount, I am my father’s son!”
Mrs. Lecount bowed submissively.
“I mean to set down any sum of money I think right,” pursued Noel Vanstone, nodding his little flaxen head vehemently. “I mean to send this advertisement myself. The servant shall take it to the stationer’s to be put into the Times. When I ring the bell twice, send the servant. You understand, Lecount? Send the servant.”
Mrs. Lecount bowed again and walked slowly to the door. She knew to a nicety when to lead her master and when to let him go alone. Experience had taught her to govern him in all essential points by giving way to him afterward on all points of minor detail. It was a characteristic of his weak nature—as it is of all weak natures—to assert itself obstinately on trifles. The filling in of the blank in the advertisement was the trifle in this case; and Mrs. Lecount quieted her master’s suspicions that she was leading him by instantly conceding it. “My mule has kicked,” she thought to herself, in her own language, as she opened the door. “I can do no more with him to-day.”
“Lecount!” cried her master, as she stepped into the passage. “Come back.”
Mrs. Lecount came back.
“You’re not offended with me, are you?” asked Noel Vanstone, uneasily.
“Certainly not, sir,” replied Mrs. Lecount. “As you said just now—you are master.”
“Good creature! Give me your hand.” He kissed her hand, and smiled in high approval of his own affectionate proceeding. “Lecount, you are a worthy creature!”
“Thank you, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount. She courtesied and went out. “If he had any brains in that monkey head of his,” she said to herself in the passage, “what a rascal he would be!”