“ ‘Give you? I’ll give you Culverwood, you rogue.’
“ ‘Done,’ I cried.
“ ‘That is,’ stammered my uncle, ‘that is,’ and he reddened like the funnel of one of his hated steamers, ‘that is, you know, always provided, you know. It wouldn’t be fair to Lady Georgiana, now, would it? I put it to yourself—if she took the trouble, you know. You understand me, my boy?’
“ ‘That’s of course, uncle,’ I said.
“ ‘Ah! I see you’re a gentleman like your father, not to trip a man when he stumbles,’ said my uncle. For such was the dear old man’s sense of honour, that he was actually uncomfortable about the hasty promise he had made without first specifying the exception. The exception, you know, has Culverwood at the present hour, and right welcome he is.
“ ‘Of course, uncle,’ I said—‘between gentlemen, you know. Still, I want my joke out, too. What will you give me for a dozen of port to tide you over Christmas Day?’
“ ‘Give you, my boy? I’ll give you—’
“But here he checked himself, as one that had been burned already.
“ ‘Bah!’ he said, turning his back, and going towards the door; ‘what’s the use of joking about serious affairs like this?’
“And so he left the room. And I let him go. For I had heard that the road from Liverpool was impassable, the wind and snow having continued every day since that night of which I told you. Meantime, I had never been able to summon the courage to say one word to your mother—I beg her pardon, I mean Miss Thornbury.