'
"Well, I never wrote such a long letter in my life, it must count for
three, mind. We had a great deal more fun after that, but Val and I got
away, because a little crowd collected. Cray stayed behind, pretending
he did not belong to us, and he heard a man say, 'Perhaps the
gentleman's a parson; that sort always think they ought to be
_moralising_ about something or other.' And he found out by their talk
that the old lady was a clearstarcher, so when she was alone again we
went back. Val said he should be some time at Brighton, and he gave her
his address and offered her his washing. She asked for his name, too,
and he replied--you know how grave Val is--'Well, ma'am, I'm sorry to
say I cannot oblige you with my name, because I don't know it. All I am
sure about is, that it begins with an M; but I've written up to London,
and I shall know for a certainty the week after next.' So she winked at
me, and tapped herself on the forehead. Val is very much vexed because
he came up to London about the will, and the lawyers say he cannot--or
somebody else, I don't know which--cannot administer it unless he takes
the name of Melcombe.
Pages:
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444