read the letter, pursing up his lips and drawing down their corners.
"Under the circumstances I will not decline to state my conviction—tchah! what fine words the fellow puts! He's as fine as an auctioneer—that your son Frederic has not obtained any advance of money on bequests promised by Mr Featherstone—promised? who said I had ever promised? I promise nothing—I shall make codicils as long as I like—and that considering the nature of such a proceeding, it is unreasonable to presume that a young man of sense and character would attempt it—ah, but the gentleman doesn't say you are a young man of sense and character, mark you that, sir!—'as to my own concern with any report of such a nature, I distinctly affirm that I never made any statement to the effect that your son had borrowed money on any property that might accrue to him on Mr Featherstone's demise'—bless my heart! 'property'—accrue—demise! Lawyer Standish is nothing to him. He couldn't speak finer if he wanted to borrow. Well," Mr Featherstone here looked over his spectacles at Fred, while he handed back the letter to him with a contemptuous gesture, "you don't suppose I believe a thing because Bulstrode writes it out fine, eh?"
Fred coloured. "You wished to have the letter,
