“Thank God for your conversion,” returned his nephew smiling, “and if this lovely girl whom you have just introduced to me, is the cause of it, then thank God for her also.”
His uncle bowed with a gravity almost solemn, but the ladies returning at this moment, he refrained from further reply. After supper, to which unusual meal Mr. Sylvester insisted upon his nephew remaining, the two gentlemen again drew apart.
“If you have decided upon buying the shares I have mentioned,” said the former, “you had better get your money in a position to handle at once. I shall wish to present you to Mr. Stuyvesant to-morrow, and I should like to be able to mention you as a future stockholder in the bank.”
“Mr. Stuyvesant!” exclaimed Bertram, ignoring the rest of the sentence.
“Yes,” returned his uncle with a smile, “Thaddeus Stuyvesant is the next largest stockholder to myself in the Madison Bank, and his patronage is not an undesirable one.”
“Indeed—I was not aware—excuse me, I should be happy,” stammered the young man. “As for the money, it is all in Governments and is at your command whenever you please.”
“That is good, I’ll notify you when I’m ready for the transfer. And now come,” said he, with a change from his deep business tone to the lighter one of ordinary social converse, “forget for a half hour that you have discarded the name of Mandeville, and give us an aria or a sonata from Mendelssohn before those hands have quite lost their cunning.”
“But the ladies,” inquired the youth glancing towards the drawing-room where Mrs. Sylvester was giving Paula her first lesson in ceramics.
“Ah, it is to see how the charm will act upon my shy country lassie, that I request such a favor.”
“Has she never heard Mendelssohn?”