When the whist party had dissolved, and people were gone to their berths, Mr. West—who was always prepared to sit up—and Wynne were alone.
“I suppose Madeline went below long ago? You have been looking after her as usual?”
“Yes, I took her down.”
“That’s all right”—pausing. “Then play a game of écarté. There’s another half-hour yet before lights-out.”
“No, thanks. The fact is”—seating himself opposite, and squaring his arms on the table—“I want to have a few words with you.”
“With me? Certainly, certainly”—with a momentary glance of surprise. “About those investments?”
“No; it’s a more personal matter. You”—hesitating for a second—“have seemed to like me, Mr. West.”
“Seemed! Why, I don’t know a single young fellow that I like as well. You are clever, you are good company, you are making yourself a name. I only wish I had a son like you!”
CHAPTER XLII.
WON ALREADY.
“Then, what would you think of taking me for a son-in-law?” said Mr. Wynne, fixing his dark eyes steadily on the little man opposite to him, who was busily shuffling the cards.