'With your permission, my dear Puddock?' said Devereux, before breaking
the seal; for in those days they grew ceremonious the moment a point of
etiquette turned up. Puddock gave him leave, and he read the letter.
'From my aunt,' he said, throwing it down with a discontented air; and
then he read it once more, thought for a while, and put it into his
pocket. 'The countess says I must go, Puddock. She has got my leave from
the general; and hang it--there's no help for it--I can't vex her, you
know. Indeed, Puddock, I _would_ not vex her. Poor old aunt--she has
been mighty kind to me--no one knows how kind. So I leave to-morrow.'
'Not to stay away!' exclaimed Puddock, much concerned.
'I don't know, dear Puddock. I know no more than the man in the moon
what her plans are. Lewis, you know, is ordered by the doctors to
Malaga; and Loftus--honest dog--I managed that trifle for him--goes with
him; and the poor old lady, I suppose, is in the vapours, and wants
me--and that's all. And Puddock, we must drink a bowl of punch
together--you and I--or something--anything--what you please.'
And so they sat some time longer, and grew very merry and friendly, and
a little bit pathetic in their several ways.
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