cup was filled up and passed back, Louise failing to notice that Pradelle manoeuvred to touch her hand as he played his part in the transfer. Then the door opened, and Liza, the brown-faced, black-haired Cornish maid, entered, bearing a tray with an untouched cup of tea, a brown piece of ham on its plate, and a little covered dish of hot toast.
“Please, ’m, Miss Vine says she don’t want no breakfast this morning.”
The Beloe bottle dropped back into George Vine’s pocket.
“Eh! My sister ill?” he said anxiously.
“No, sir; she seems quite well, but she was gashly cross with me, and said why didn’t Miss Louie bring it up.”
“Liza, I forbad you to use that foolish word, ‘gashly,’” said Louise, pouring out a fresh cup of tea, and changing it for the one cooling on the tray.
“Why don’t you take up auntie’s breakfast as you always do! You know she doesn’t like it sent up.”
Louise made no reply to her brother, but turned to Pradelle.
“You will excuse me for a few minutes, Mr Pradelle,” she said, as she rose.
“Excuse – you?” he replied, with a peculiar smile; and, rising in turn, he managed so badly as he hurried to the door to open it for Louise’s passage with the tray, that he and Liza, bent on the same errand, came into collision.
“Thank you, Mr Pradelle,” said Louise, quietly, as she passed out with the tray, and Liza gave him an indignant glance as she closed the door.
“Ha, ha! What a bungle!” cried Harry mockingly, as he helped himself to more ham.
George Vine was absorbed once more in the study of the Beloe.
“Never you mind, my lord the count,” said Pradelle in an undertone; “I don’t see that you get on so very well.”
Harry winced.
“What are you going to do this morning?”
“Fish.”
“Humph! well to be you,” said Harry, with a vicious bite at his bread, while his father was too much absorbed in his study even to hear. “You’re going loafing about, and I’ve got to go and turn that grindstone.”
“Which you can leave whenever you like,” said Pradelle meaningly.
“Hold your tongue!” cried Harry roughly, as the door re-opened, and Louise, looking slightly flushed, again took her place at the table.
“Aunt poorly?” said Vine.
“Oh, no, papa; she is having her breakfast now.”
“If you’re too idle to take up auntie’s breakfast, I’ll take it,” said Harry severely. “Don’t send it up by that girl again.”
“I shall always take it myself, Harry,” said Louise quietly.
The breakfast was ended; George Vine went to his study to feed his sea-anemones on chopped whelk; Pradelle made an excuse about fishing lines, after reading plainly enough that his presence was unwelcome; and Harry stood with his hands in his pockets, looking on as his sister put away the tea-caddy.
“Will you not be late, Harry?”
“Perhaps,” he said, ill-humouredly. “I shall be there as soon as old bottle-nose I dare say.”
“How long is Mr Pradelle going to stay?”
“Long as I like.”
There was a pause. Then Harry continued. “He’s a friend of mine, a gentleman, and Aunt Marguerite likes him to stay.”
“Yes,” said Louise gravely. “Aunt Marguerite seems to like him.”
“And so do you, only you’re such a precious coquette.”
Louise raised her eyebrows. This was news to her, but she said nothing.
“The more any one sees of Pradelle the more one likes him. Deal nicer fellow than that Scotch prig Leslie.”
There was a slight flush on Louise Vine’s face, but she did not speak, merely glanced at the clock.
“All right: I’m not going yet.”
Then, changing his manner —
“Oh, Lou, you can’t think what a life it is,” he cried impetuously.
“Why, Harry, it ought to be a very pleasant one.”
“What, with your nose over an account book, and every time you happen to look up, old Crampton staring at you as much as to say, ‘Why don’t you go on?’”
“Never mind, dear. Try and think that it is for your good.”
“For my good!” he said with a mocking laugh.
“Yes, and to please father. Why, Harry dear, is it not something to have a chance to redeem your character?”
“Redeem my grandmother! I’ve never lost it. Why, Lou, it’s too bad. Here’s father rich as a Jew, and Uncle Luke with no end of money.”
“Has he, Harry?” said Louise thoughtfully. “Really I don’t know.”
“I’m sure he has – lots. A jolly old miser, and no one to leave it to; and I don’t see then why I should be ground down to work like an errand-boy.”
“Don’t make a sentimental grievance of it, dear, but go and do your duty like a man.”
“If I do my duty like a man I shall go and try to recover the French estates which my father neglects.”
“No, don’t do that, dear; go and get my old school spelling-book and read the fable of the dog and the shadow.”
“There you go, sneering again. You women can’t understand a fellow. Here am I worried to death for money, and have to drudge as old Van Heldre’s clerk.”
“Worried for money, Harry? What nonsense!”
“I am. You don’t know. I say, Lou dear.”
“Now, Harry! you will be so late.”
“I won’t go at all if you don’t listen to me. Look here; I want fifty pounds.”
“What for?”
“Never mind. Will you lend it to me?”
“But what can you want with fifty pounds, Harry? You’re not in debt?”
“You’ve got some saved up. Now, lend it to me, there’s a good girl; I’ll pay you again, honour bright.”
“Harry, I’ve lent you money till I’m tired of lending, and you never do pay me back.”
“But I will this time.”
Louise
