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Of High Descent
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“Ah,” said Uncle Luke, pressing the snap and opening it. “One, two, three, four; how much do these cigars cost?”
“Only fourpence, uncle; can’t afford better ones.”
“And a cigar lasts – how long?”
“Oh, I make one last three-quarters of an hour, because I smoke very slowly. Try one one.”
“No, thankye; can’t afford such luxuries, my boy,” said the old man, shutting the case with a snap, and returning it. “That case and the cigars there cost nearly a pound. Your income must be rising fast.”
Harry and Pradelle exchanged glances. The reception did not promise well for a loan. “Cigar does you good sometimes.”
“Harry,” said the old man, laughing and pointing at the case.
“What’s the matter, uncle?” said Harry eagerly; “want one?”
“No, no. Why didn’t you have it put on there?”
“What?”
“Crest and motto, and your title – Comte des Vignes. You might lose it, and then people would know where to take it.”
“Don’t chaff a fellow, uncle,” said Harry, colouring. “Here, we may come and sit down, mayn’t we?”
“Oh, certainly, if your friend will condescend to take a seat in my homely place.”
“Only too happy, Mr Luke Vine.”
“Are you now? Shouldn’t have thought it,” sneered the old man. “No wine to offer you, sir; no brandy and soda; that’s the stuff young men drink now, isn’t it?”
“Don’t name it, my dear sir; don’t name it,” said Pradelle, with an attempt at heartiness that made the old man half close his eyes. “Harry and I only came up for a stroll. Besides, we’ve just dined.”
“Have you? That’s a good job, because I’ve only a bit of conger in the house, and that isn’t cooked. Come in and sit down, sir. You, Harry, you’ll have to sit down on that old oak chest.”
