“Some! enough to start with; a small amount to you, but sufficient if I am fortunate.”
“And if you are not?”
The young man opened his arms with an expressive gesture, “I am done for, that is all.”
“Bertram,” his uncle exclaimed with a change of tone, “has it ever struck you that Mr. Preston might have as strong a prejudice against speculation as against the musical profession?”
“No, that is, pardon me but I have sometimes thought that even in the event of success I should have to struggle against his inherited instincts of caste and his natural dislike of all things new, even wealth, but I never thought of the possibility of my arousing his distrust by speculating in stocks and engaging in enterprises so nearly in accord with his own business operations.”
“Yet if I guess aright you would run greater risk of losing the support of his countenance by following the hazardous course you propose, than if you continued in the line of art that now engages you.”
“Do you know—”
“I know nothing, but I fear the chances, Bertram.”
“Then I am already defeated and must give up my hopes of happiness.”
A smile thin and indefinable crossed the other’s face. “No,” said he, “not necessarily.” And sitting down by his nephew’s side, he asked if he had any objections to enter a bank. “In a good capacity,” he exclaimed.