“Under the circumstances I will not decline to state my conviction—­ tchah! what fine words the fellow puts!  He’s as fine as an auctioneer—­ that your son Frederic has not obtained any advance of money on bequests promised by Mr. Featherstone—­promised? who said I had ever promised?  I promise nothing—­I shall make codicils as long as I like—­and that considering the nature of such a proceeding, it is unreasonable to presume that a young man of sense and character would attempt it—­ah, but the gentleman doesn’t say you are a young man of sense and character, mark you that, sir!—­As to my own concern with any report of such a nature, I distinctly affirm that I never made any statement to the effect that your son had borrowed money on any property that might accrue to him on Mr. Featherstone’s demise—­ bless my heart! `property’—­accrue—­demise!  Lawyer Standish is nothing to him.  He couldn’t speak finer if he wanted to borrow.  Well,” Mr. Featherstone here looked over his spectacles at Fred, while he handed back the letter to him with a contemptuous gesture, “you don’t suppose I believe a thing because Bulstrode writes it out fine, eh?”

Fred colored.  “You wished to have the letter, sir.  I should think it very likely that Mr. Bulstrode’s denial is as good as the authority which told you what he denies.”

“Every bit.  I never said I believed either one or the other.  And now what d’ you expect?” said Mr. Featherstone, curtly, keeping on his spectacles, but withdrawing his hands under his wraps.

“I expect nothing, sir.”  Fred with difficulty restrained himself from venting his irritation.  “I came to bring you the letter.  If you like I will bid you good morning.”

“Not yet, not yet.  Ring the bell; I want missy to come.”

It was a servant who came in answer to the bell.

“Tell missy to come!” said Mr. Featherstone, impatiently.  “What business had she to go away?” He spoke in the same tone when Mary came.

“Why couldn’t you sit still here till I told you to go? want my waistcoat now.  I told you always to put it on the bed.”

Mary’s eyes looked rather red, as if she had been crying.  It was clear that Mr. Featherstone was in one of his most snappish humors this morning, and though Fred had now the prospect of receiving the much-needed present of money, he would have preferred being free to turn round on the old tyrant and tell him that Mary Garth was too good to be at his beck.  Though Fred had risen as she entered the room, she had barely noticed him, and looked as if her nerves were quivering with the expectation that something would be thrown at her.  But she never had anything worse than words to dread.  When she went to reach the waistcoat from a peg, Fred went up to her and said, “Allow me.”

“Let it alone!  You bring it, missy, and lay it down here,” said Mr. Featherstone.  “Now you go away again till I call you,” he added, when the waistcoat was laid down by him.  It was usual with him to season his pleasure in showing favor to one person by being especially disagreeable to another, and Mary was always at hand to furnish the condiment.  When his own relatives came she was treated better.  Slowly he took out a bunch of keys from the waistcoat pocket, and slowly he drew forth a tin box which was under the bed-clothes.