“Yes,” cried Willoughby; “and it is a part.  And let old Vernon surrender the boy to me, I will immediately relieve him of the burden on his purse.  Can I do that, my dear, for the furtherance of a scheme I condemn?  The point is thus:  latterly I have invited Captain Patterne to visit me:  just previous to his departure for the African Coast, where Government despatches Marines when there is no other way of killing them, I sent him a special invitation.  He thanked me and curtly declined.  The man, I may almost say, is my pensioner.  Well, he calls himself a Patterne, he is undoubtedly a man of courage, he has elements of our blood, and the name.  I think I am to be approved for desiring to make a better gentleman of the son than I behold in the father:  and seeing that life from an early age on board ship has anything but made a gentleman of the father, I hold that I am right in shaping another course for the son.”

“Naval officers . . .”  Clara suggested.

“Some,” said Willoughby.  “But they must be men of birth, coming out of homes of good breeding.  Strip them of the halo of the title of naval officers, and I fear you would not often say gentlemen when they step into a drawing-room.  I went so far as to fancy I had some claim to make young Crossjay something different.  It can be done:  the Patterne comes out in his behaviour to you, my love; it can be done.  But if I take him, I claim undisputed sway over him.  I cannot make a gentleman of the fellow if I am to compete with this person and that.  In fine, he must look up to me, he must have one model.”

“Would you, then, provide for him subsequently?”

“According to his behaviour.”

“Would not that be precarious for him?”

“More so than the profession you appear inclined to choose for him?”

“But there he would be under clear regulations.”

“With me he would have to respond to affection.”

“Would you secure to him a settled income?  For an idle gentleman is bad enough; a penniless gentleman . . .”

“He has only to please me, my dear, and he will be launched and protected.”

“But if he does not succeed in pleasing you?”

“Is it so difficult?”

“Oh!” Clara fretted.

“You see, my love, I answer you,” said Sir Willoughby.

He resumed:  “But let old Vernon have his trial with the lad.  He has his own ideas.  Let him carry them out.  I shall watch the experiment.”

Clara was for abandoning her task in sheer faintness.

“Is not the question one of money?” she said, shyly, knowing Mr. Whitford to be poor.

“Old Vernon chooses to spend his money that way.” replied Sir Willoughby.  “If it saves him from breaking his shins and risking his neck on his Alps, we may consider it well employed.”

“Yes,” Clara’s voice occupied a pause.

She seized her languor as it were a curling snake and cast it off.  “But I understand that Mr. Whitford wants your assistance.  Is he not—­not rich?  When he leaves the Hall to try his fortune in literature in London, he may not be so well able to support Crossjay and obtain the instruction necessary for the boy:  and it would be generous to help him.”