"Linda Lady Blanchemain presents her compliments to Lord
Blanchemain of Ventmere, and begs to apprise him that she has
lately had the pleasure of meeting his lordship's nephew John, and
has discovered to her amazement that his lordship makes him no
allowance. This situation, for the heir to the barony of
Blanchemain, is of course absurd, and must, Lady Blanchemain is
sure, be due entirely to an oversight on his lordship's part. She
ventures, therefore, with all respect, to bring it to his notice."
So! Here sat a young man with plenty to think about; a young man, whose
income, yesterday a bare six hundred, had sprung up over night to
something near six thousand. Six thousand a year isn't opulence, if you
like, but a young man possessing it can hardly look upon himself as
quite empty-handed, either. This young man, however, had other things as
well to think of. What of that embroidered handkerchief? What of those
shrewd suspicions of Lady Blanchemain's? What of his miller's daughter?
And there was another thing still. What of his proud old honest Spartan
of an unimaginative uncle? He thought of him, and "Oh, the poor old
boy," he cried. "Not for ten times the money would I have had the dear
old woman write to him like that. How hard it must have hit him!"
"M, D, and a princely crown," he reflected. "I wish I had an Almanach de
Gotha."