"I can't quite forgive you,
Mr. Cuthbert, for letting me grow up and be so shamefully imposed
upon, but of course I don't blame you as I do the others. I am only
thankful that I have made myself independent of my relations. I
think, after the letters which I wrote to them last night, they will
be quite content to let me remain where they put my father - outside
their lives."
I had heard," Mr. Cuthbert said hesitatingly, "that you were
following some occupation. Something literary, is it not?"
"I am a journalist," Ernestine answered promptly, "and I'm proud to
say that I am earning my own living."
He looked at her with a fine and wonderful curiosity. In his way
he was quite as much one of the old school as the Earl of
Eastchester, and the idea of a lady - a Wendermott, too - calling
herself a journalist and proud of making a few hundreds a year was
amazing enough to him. He scarcely knew how to answer her.
"Yes, yes," he said, "you have some of your father's spirit, some
of his pluck too. And that reminds me - we wrote to you to call."
"Yes."
"Mr. Davenant has told you that your father was engaged in some
enterprise with this wonderful Mr. Scarlett Trent, when he died."
"Yes! He told me that!"
"Well, I have had a visit just recently from that gentleman.
Pages:
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167