"And Tom?"

He went behind his reserve. "Tom is a d--d rake," he exclaimed, with
some vehemence. "I have given him over. He has taken up with that
macaroni Courtenay, who wins his money,--or rather my money,--and your
cousin Philip, when he is home from King's College. How Tom can be son
of mine is beyond me, in faith. I see him about once in two months, when
he comes here with a bill for his satins and his ruffles, and along face
of repentance, and a lot of gaming debts to involve my honour. And that
reminds me, Richard," said he, looking straight at me with his clear,
dark eyes: "have you made any plans for your future?"

I ventured to ask his advice as to entering the law.

"As the only profession open to a gentleman," he replied, smiling a
little. "No, you were no more cut out for an attorney, or a barrister,
or a judge, than was I for a macaroni doctor. The time is not far away,
my lad," he went on, seeing my shame and confusion, "when an American may
amass money in any way he chooses, and still be a gentleman, behind a
counter, if he will."

"I do not fear work, Mr. Swain," I remarked, with some pride.

"That is what I have been thinking," he said shortly. "And I am not a
man to make up my mind while you count three, Richard. I have the place
in Talbot, and no one to look after it. And--and in short I think you
are the man."

He paused to watch the effect of this upon me. But I was so taken aback
by this new act of kindness that I could not say a word.