"He has come out uncommon strong," said Mr. Foker; "I have seen his verses; Rouncy copied 'em. And I said to myself when I saw 'em, 'Catch me writin' verses to a woman—that's all.'"
"He has made a fool of himself, as many a good fellow has before him. How can we make him see his folly and cure it? I am sure you will give us what aid you can in extricating a generous young man from such a pair of schemers as this father and daughter seem to be. Love on the lady's side is out of the question."
"Love, indeed!" Foker said. "If Pen hadn't two thousand a year when he came of age—"
"If Pen hadn't what?" cried out the major, in astonishment.
"Two thousand a year: hasn't he got two thousand a year?—the general says he has."
"My dear friend," shrieked out the major, with an eagerness which this gentleman rarely showed, "thank you!—thank you!—I begin to see now.—Two thousand a year! Why, his mother has but five hundred a year in the world.—She is likely to live to eighty, and Arthur has not a shilling but what she can allow him."
"What! he ain't rich then?" Foker asked.
"Upon my honor, he has no more than what I say."
"And you ain't going to leave him any thing?"
The major had sunk every shilling he could scrape together on annuity, and of course was going to leave Pen nothing; but he did not tell Foker this. "How much do you think a major on half-pay can save?" he asked. "If these people have been looking at him as a fortune, they are utterly mistaken—and—and you have made me the happiest man in the world."