put on his glasses to examine the stone more carefully, for it was some time since he had last seen or thought about it. Then he looked up and said once more, 'What use would a thing like this be to you?'
Dick would have considered it a very valuable prize indeed; he could have exhibited it to admiring friends—during lessons, of course, when it would prove a most agreeable distraction; he could have played with and fingered it incessantly, invented astonishing legends of its powers and virtues; and, at last, when he had grown tired of it, have bartered it for any more desirable article that might take his fancy. All these advantages were present to his mind in a vague shifting form, but he could not find either courage or words to explain them.
Consequently he only said awkwardly, 'Oh, I don't know, I should like it.'
'Well, any way,' said Paul, 'you certainly won't have it. It's worth keeping, whatever it is, as the only thing your uncle Marmaduke was ever known to give to anybody.'
Marmaduke Paradine, his brother-in-law, was not a connection of whom he had much reason to feel particularly proud. One of those persons endowed with what are known as 'insinuating manners and address,' he had, after some futile attempts to enter the army, been sent out to Bombay as agent for a Manchester firm, and in that capacity had contrived to be mixed up in some more than shady transactions with rival exporters and native dealers up the country, which led to an unceremonious dismissal by his employers.
He had brought home the stone from India as a propitiatory token of remembrance, more portable and less expensive than the lacquered cabinets, brasses, stuffs and carved work which are expected from friends at such a distance, and he had been received with pardon and started once more, until certain other proceedings of his, shadier still, had obliged Paul to forbid him the house at Westbourne Terrace.
Since then little had been heard of him, and the reports which reached Mr. Bultitude of his disreputable relative's connection with the promotion of a series of companies of the kind affected by the widow and curate, and exposed in money articles and law courts, gave him no desire to renew his acquaintance.
'Isn't it a talisman, though?' said Dick, rather unfortunately for any hopes he might have of persuading his father to entrust him with the coveted treasure.
'I'm sure I can't tell you,' yawned Paul, 'how do you mean?'
'I don't know, only Uncle Duke once said something about it. Barbara heard him tell mamma. I say, perhaps it's like the one in Scott, and cures people of things, though I don't think it's that sort of talisman either, because I tried it once on my chilblains, and it wasn't a bit of good. If you would only let me have it, perhaps I might find out, you know.'
'You might,' said his father drily, apparently not much influenced by this inducement, 'but you won't have the chance. If it has a secret, I will find it out for myself' (he little knew how literally he was to be taken at his word), 'and, by the way, there's your cab—at last.'
There was a sound of wheels outside, and, as Dick heard them, he grew desperate in his extremity; a wish he had long secretly cherished unspoken, without ever hoping for courage to give it words, rose to his lips now; he got up and moved timidly towards his father.
'Father,' he said, 'there's something I want to say to you so much before I go. Do let me ask you now.'
'Well, what is it?' said Paul. 'Make haste, you haven't much time.'
'It's this. I want you to—to let me leave Grimstone's at the end of the term.'
Paul stared at him, angry and incredulous, 'Let you leave Dr. Grimstone's (oblige me by giving him his full title when you speak of him),' he said slowly. 'Why, what do you mean? It's an excellent school—never saw a better expressed prospectus in my life. And my old friend Bangle, Sir Benjamin Bangle, who's a member of the School Board, and ought to know something about schools, strongly recommended it—would have sent his own son there, if he hadn't entered him at Eton. And when I pay for most of the extras for you too. Dancing, by Gad, and meat for breakfast. I'm sure I don't know what you would have.'