‘Is the English mail in?’ Mr Hawthorn asked anxiously, as they took their seats in the piazza to rest themselves for a while after their ride, before proceeding to active business. That one solitary fortnightly channel of communication with the outer world assumes an importance in the eyes of remote colonists which can hardly even be comprehended by our bustling, stay-at-home English people. ‘It is,’ Mr Dupuy replied, taking the proffered glass of Madeira from his host as he answered. Old-fashioned wine-drinking hospitality still prevails largely in the West Indies. ‘I got my letters just as I was starting. Yours will be here before long, I don’t doubt, Mr Hawthorn. I had news, important news in my budget this morning. My daughter, sir, my daughter Nora, who has been completing her education in England, is coming out to Trinidad by the next steamer.’ ‘You must be delighted at the prospect of seeing her,’ Mr Hawthorn answered with a slight sigh. ‘I only wish I were going as soon to see my dear boy Edward.’ Mr Dupuy’s lip curled faintly as he replied in a careless manner: ‘Ah, yes, to be sure. Your boy’s in England, Mr Hawthorn, isn’t he? If I recollect right, you sent him to Cambridge.—Ah, yes, I thought so, to Cambridge. A very excellent thing for you to do with him. If you take my advice, my dear sir, you’ll let him stop in the old country—a much better place for him in every way, than this island.’ ‘I mean to,’ Mr Hawthorn answered in a low voice. ‘God forbid that I should ever be a party to bringing him out here to Trinidad.’ ‘Oh, certainly not—certainly not. I quite agree with you. Far better for him to stop where he is, and take his chance of making a living for himself in England. Not that he can be at any loss in that matter either. You must be in a position to make him very comfortable too, Mr Hawthorn! Fine estate, Agualta, and turns out a capital brand of rum and sugar.’ ‘Best vacuum-pan and centrifugal in the whole island,’ Tom Dupuy put in parenthetically. ‘Turned out four hundred and thirty-four hogsheads of sugar and three hundred and ninety puncheons of rum last season—largest yield of any estate in the Windward Islands except Mount Arlington. You don’t catch me out of it in any matter where sugar’s in question, I can tell you.’ ‘But my daughter, Mr Hawthorn,’ the elder Dupuy went on, smiling, and sipping his Madeira in a leisurely fashion—‘my daughter means to come out to join me by the next steamer; and my nephew Tom and I are naturally looking forward to her approaching arrival with the greatest anxiety. A young lady in Miss Dupuy’s position, I need hardly say to you, who has been finishing her education at a good school in England, comes out to Trinidad under exceptionally favourable circumstances. She will have much here to interest her in society, and we hope she will enjoy herself and make herself happy.’