‘That’s a shame!’ said Mr. Andrew, propitiatingly.  ’Well, never mind, Tom:  the women are sometimes in the way.—­Evan went down to bury his father.  He’s there now.  You wouldn’t see him when he was at the Brewery, Tom.  He’s—­upon my honour! he’s a good young fellow.’

‘A fine young gentleman, I’ve no doubt, Nan.’

’A really good lad, Tom.  No nonsense.  I’ve come here to speak to you about him.’

Mr. Andrew drew a letter from his pocket, pursuing:  ’Just throw aside your prejudices, and read this.  It’s a letter I had from him this morning.  But first I must tell you how the case stands.’

‘Know more than you can tell me, Nan,’ said Tom, turning over the flavour of a gulp of his wine.

’Well, then, just let me repeat it.  He has been capitally educated; he has always been used to good society:  well, we mustn’t sneer at it:  good society’s better than bad, you’ll allow.  He has refined tastes:  well, you wouldn’t like to live among crossing-sweepers, Tom.  He ’s clever and accomplished, can speak and write in three languages:  I wish I had his abilities.  He has good manners:  well, Tom, you know you like them as well as anybody.  And now—­but read for yourself.’

‘Yah!’ went old Tom.  ’The women have been playing the fool with him since he was a baby.  I read his rigmarole?  No.’

Mr. Andrew shrugged his shoulders, and opened the letter, saying:  ’Well, listen’; and then he coughed, and rapidly skimmed the introductory part.  ’Excuses himself for addressing me formally—­poor boy!  Circumstances have altered his position towards the world found his father’s affairs in a bad state:  only chance of paying off father’s debts to undertake management of business, and bind himself to so much a year.  But there, Tom, if you won’t read it, you miss the poor young fellow’s character.  He says that he has forgotten his station:  fancied he was superior to trade, but hates debt; and will not allow anybody to throw dirt at his father’s name, while he can work to clear it; and will sacrifice his pride.  Come, Tom, that’s manly, isn’t it?  I call it touching, poor lad!’

Manly it may have been, but the touching part of it was a feature missed in Mr. Andrew’s hands.  At any rate, it did not appear favourably to impress Tom, whose chin had gathered its ominous puckers, as he inquired: 

‘What’s the trade? he don’t say.’

Andrew added, with a wave of the hand:  ’Out of a sort of feeling for his sisters—­I like him for it.  Now what I want to ask you, Tom, is, whether we can’t assist him in some way!  Why couldn’t we take him into our office, and fix him there, eh?  If he works well—­we’re both getting old, and my brats are chicks—­we might, by-and-by, give him a share.’

’Make a brewer of him?  Ha! there’d be another mighty sacrifice for his pride!’

‘Come, come, Tom,’ said Andrew, ’he’s my wife’s brother, and I’m yours; and—­there, you know what women are.  They like to preserve appearances:  we ought to consider them.’