“I think you’re quite under a delusion, in both respects,” observed Sir William.

“What makes you think that?”

“I have Edward’s word.”

“He lies as naturally as an infant sucks.”

“Pardon me; this is my son you are speaking of.”

“And this is your Port I’m drinking; so I’ll say no more.”

The squire emptied his glass, and Sir William thrummed on the table.

“Now, my dog has got his name,” the squire resumed.  “I’m not ambitious about him.  You are, about yours; and you ought to know him.  He spends or he don’t spend.  It’s not the question whether he gets into debt, but whether he does mischief with what he spends.  If Algy’s a bad fish, Ned’s a bit of a serpent; damned clever, no doubt.  I suppose, you wouldn’t let him marry old Fleming’s daughter, now, if he wanted to?”

“Who is Fleming?” Sir William thundered out.

“Fleming’s the father of the girl.  I’m sorry for him.  He sells his farm-land which I’ve been looking at for years; so I profit by it; but I don’t like to see a man like that broken up.  Algy, I said before, ’s a bad fish.  Hang me, if I think he’d have behaved like Ned.  If he had, I’d have compelled him to marry her, and shipped them both off, clean out of the country, to try their luck elsewhere.

“You’re proud; I’m practical.  I don’t expect you to do the same.  I’m up in London now to raise money to buy the farm—­Queen’s Anne’s Farm; it’s advertized for sale, I see.  Fleeting won’t sell it to me privately, because my name’s Blancove, and I’m the father of my son, and he fancies Algy’s the man.  Why? he saw Algy at the theatre in London with this girl of his;—­we were all young fellows once!—­and the rascal took Ned’s burden on his shoulders.  So, I shall have to compete with other buyers, and pay, I dare say, a couple of hundred extra for the property.  Do you believe what I tell you now?”

“Not a word of it,” said Sir William blandly.

The squire seized the decanter and drank in a fury.

“I had it from Algy.”

“That would all the less induce me to believe it.”

“H’m!” the squire frowned.  “Let me tell you—­he’s a dog—­but it’s a damned hard thing to hear one’s own flesh and blood abused.  Look here:  there’s a couple.  One of them has made a fool of a girl.  It can’t be my rascal—­stop a minute—­he isn’t the man, because she’d have been sure to have made a fool of him, that’s certain.  He’s a soft-hearted dog.  He’d aim at a cock-sparrow, and be glad if he missed.  There you have him.  He was one of your good boys.  I used to tell his poor mother, ’When you leave off thinking for him, he’ll go to the first handy villain—­and that’s the devil.’  And he’s done it.  But, here’s the difference.  He goes himself; he don’t send another.  I’ll tell you what:  if you don’t know about Mr. Ned’s tricks, you ought.  And you ought to make him marry the girl, and be