of paper that she thought so worthless that it's a wonder she
took the trouble to save them, gave her city lots that turned out as
good as gold mines. She sold too soon, or she'd have made millions--
and died of a broken heart, they say, when she found out that mistake.
Still, she left a lot more than it's good for a young fellow to start
life with. That boy has been to Cambridge, and now he loafs about the
club, pretends to be a judge of wine, gets every stitch of clothes from
London--pah!" Mr Pennycuick spat neatly and with precision over the
verandah floor into a flower-bed. "But these mother's darlings--you
know them. If Mrs Dalzell could see him now, I daresay she'd be
bursting with pride, for there's no denying that he's a smart-looking
chap. But his father would be ashamed of him."

"Daddy dear!" Mary gently expostulated.

"So he would. An idle, finicking scamp, that'll never do an honest
stroke of work as long as he lives. And I wish Deb wouldn't waste her
time listening to his nonsense. Isn't it about time to be getting ready
for dinner, Moll?"

Mary looked through a window at a clock indoors, and said it was.
Guthrie hailed the news, and rose to his feet.

But not yet did he escape. His host, hoisting himself heavily out of
his big cane chair, hollowed like a basin under his vast weight,
extended a detaining hand.

"Come with me to my office a minute," he half whispered. "I'd like to
show you something."