quite idiotic.

Esther, at this moment, re-entered the room.

"Are you glad to see him?" she whispered in his ear, the pleasure in her
voice almost bursting through the whisper into song.

"Oh yes," said Dick; "very."

"I knew you would be," she replied; "I told him how you loved him."

"Help yourself," said the Admiral, "help yourself; and let us drink to a
new existence."

"To a new existence," repeated Dick; and he raised the tumbler to his
lips, but set it down untasted. He had had enough of novelties for one
day.

Esther was sitting on a stool beside her father's feet, holding her
knees in her arms, and looking with pride from one to the other of her
two visitors. Her eyes were so bright that you were never sure if there
were tears in them or not; little voluptuous shivers ran about her body;
sometimes she nestled her chin into her throat, sometimes threw back her
head, with ecstasy; in a word, she was in that state when it is said of
people that they cannot contain themselves for happiness. It would be
hard to exaggerate the agony of Richard.

And, in the meantime, Van Tromp ran on interminably.

"I never forget a friend," said he, "nor yet an enemy: of the latter, I
never had but two--myself and the public; and I fancy I have had my
vengeance pretty freely out of both." He chuckled. "But those days are
done. Van Tromp is no more. He was a man who had successes; I believe
you knew I had successes--to which we shall refer no further," pulling
down his neckcloth with a smile. "That man exists no more: by an
exercise of will I have destroyed him. There is something like it in the
poets. First, a brilliant and conspicuous career--the observed, I may
say, of all observers including the bum-baily: and then, presto! a
quiet, sly, old, rustic _bonhomme_, cultivating roses. In Paris, Mr.
Naseby----"

"Call him Richard, father," said Esther.

"Richard, if he will allow me. Indeed, we are old friends, and now near
neighbours; and, _a propos_, how are we off for neighbours, Richard? The
cottage stands, I think, upon your father's land, a family which I
respect--and the wood, I understand, is Lord Trevanion's. Not that I
care; I am an old Bohemian. I have cut society with a cut direct; I cut
it when I was prosperous, and now I reap my reward, and can cut it with
dignity in my declension. These are our little _amours propres_, my
daughter: your father must respect himself. Thank you, yes; just a
leetle, leetle ti