"All the more pleasant surprise for you, my dear sir!" exclaimed Sir Charles. A new mood appeared to have come over him; after re-reading the will more attentively, he rubbed his hands, chuckled, beamed on all three of us, and seemed to have had a great weight lifted off his mind. "My hearty congratulations, sir!" he went on, with an almost reverential inclination of his head across the table. "A very, very handsome property you have come into by this, Mr. Parslewe! One of the most beautiful old houses in England, a charming, if small estate, and—yes, I should say, as a good estimate, some five or six thousand a year! Delightful!"
But Parslewe, leaning back in his chair, with his hands thrust in his breeches pockets, had set those thin lips of his. He looked over the table at Sir Charles as if he were never going to speak. But he spoke.
"Aye!" he said, in his driest, hardest tones. "Just so! Maybe! But you see, I don't want it. And I won't have it!"
A dead silence fell on us. Madrasia turned wonderingly towards her guardian.
