“Oh, yes—the will,” said Theophilus, to whom Venerable Port was just port wine. “I suppose that was what you want to talk to me about.”
He was not greatly interested. Apart from a Puckish delight, queerly dissonant from his general asceticism of thought and habit, in concealing from Evelina his Luke-gotten little fortune, he cared little for money.
“Just so,” said the lawyer “You and I are joint executors and trustees.”
“I presume,” said Theophilus, honestly taking the aunt’s disposition for granted, “that the will is in favour of our—our unfortunate cousin, Luke Wavering?”
The lawyer threw up deprecatory hands.
“That’s where you’re wrong. That’s why I wanted to have this little talk with you. . . . It’ll be a shock for Daphne—Miss Wavering now. . . .”
“What do you mean?”
“I did my
