But I will take care he _shall_
suffer it, and _not_ destroy the game.
"No, no, Sir Reginald Eversleigh, _you_ shall not be my stumbling-block
in this instance. How horribly afraid he is of me," thought Victor
Carrington, and a smile of cruel satisfaction, which might have become
a demon, lighted his pale face at the reflection; "he is dying to know
exactly how that business of Dale the elder was managed; he has the
haziest notions in connection with it, and, by Jove, he dare not ask
me. And yet, I am only his agent,--his _to be paid_ agent,--and he
shakes in his shoes before me. Yes, and I will be paid too, richly
paid, Sir Reginald, not only in money, but in power. In power--the best
and most enjoyable thing that money has to buy."
Victor Carrington sent his letter to the post, and joined his mother in
her sitting-room, where her life passed placidly away, among her birds
and her flowers. Mrs. Carrington had none of the vivacity about her
which is so general an attribute of French women. She liked her quiet
life, and had little sympathy with her son's restless ambition and
devouring discontent. A cold, silent, self-contained woman, she shut
herself up in her own occupations, and cared for nothing beyond them.
She had the French national taste and talent for needlework, and
generally listened to her son, as he talked or read to her, with a
piece of elaborate embroidery in her hand.
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