“But this I know, that there never was a better brother in the world; and never better people than the Lamberts.”
“Never was truer word said!” cries George, taking his brother's hand.
“And if I'm unhappy, 'tis not your fault—nor their fault—nor perhaps mine, George,” continues the younger. “'Tis fate, you see, 'tis the having nothing to do. I must work; and how, George? that is the question.”
“We will see what our mother says. We must wait till we hear from her,” says George.
“I say, George! Do you know, I don't think I should much like going back to Virginia?” says Harry, in a low, alarmed voice.
“What! in love with one of the lasses here?”
“Love 'em like sisters—with all my heart, of course, dearest, best girls! but, having come out of that business, thanks to you, I don't want to go back, you know. No! no! It is not for that I fancy staying in Europe better than going home. But, you see, I don't fancy hunting, duck-shooting, tobacco-planting, whist-playing, and going to sermon, over and over and over again, for all my life, George. And what else is there to do at home? What on earth is there for me to do at all, I say? That's what makes me miserable. It would not matter for you to be a younger son you are so clever you would make your way anywhere; but, for a poor fellow like me, what chance is there? Until I do something, George, I shall be miserable, that's what I shall!”
“Have I not always said so? Art thou not coming round to my opinion?”
“What opinion, George? You know pretty much whatever you think, I think, George!” says the dutiful junior.
“That Florac had best have left the Indian to take my scalp, my dear!”