absence of contradiction, which did, in fact, mean a good deal from
the silent Harold, he began to discover his own accession of dignity.
"Then it all belongs to me. I am master. I am squire--Eustace
Alison, Esquire, of Arghouse. How well it sounds. Doesn't it,
Harry, doesn't it, Lucy? Uncle Smith always said I was the one cut
out for high life. Besides, I've been presented, and have been to a
ball at Government House."

I saw that Mr. Prosser was a little overcome with amusement, and I
wanted to make my retreat and carry off Dora, but she had perched on
her favourite post--Harold's knee--and I was also needed to witness
Eustace's signatures, as well as on some matters connected with my
own property. So I stayed, and saw that he did indeed seem lost
without his cousin's help. Neither knew anything about business of
this kind, but Harold readily understood what made Eustace so
confused, that he was quite helpless without Harold's explanations,
and rather rough directions what he was to do. How like themselves
their writing was! Eustace's neat and clerkly, but weak and
illegible; and Harold's as distinct, and almost as large, as a
schoolboy's copy, but with square-turned joints and strength of limb
unlike any boy's writing.

The dressing-bell broke up the council, and Harold snatched up his
hat to rush out and stretch his legs, but I could not help detaining
him to say:

"Oh, Harry, I am so sorry!"

"Why?" he said.