“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Fred, rising, standing with his back to the fire and beating his boot with his whip. “I like neither Bulstrode nor speculation.” He spoke rather sulkily, feeling himself stalemated.

“Well, well, you can do without me, that’s pretty clear,” said old Featherstone, secretly disliking the possibility that Fred would show himself at all independent. “You neither want a bit of land to make a squire of you instead of a starving parson, nor a lift of a hundred pound by the way. It’s all one to me. I can make five codicils if I like, and I shall keep my banknotes for a nest-egg. It’s all one to me.”

Fred colored again. Featherstone had rarely given him presents of money, and at this moment it seemed almost harder to part with the immediate prospect of banknotes than with the more distant prospect of the land.

“I am not ungrateful, sir. I never meant to show disregard for any kind intentions you might have towards me. On the contrary.”