“Oh you have come to make my fortune!” said Percy Levant. “Pardon me, but that sounds rather—funny!” and he regarded Mr. Spenser Churchill with a faint smile.
“Funny!” echoed the philanthropist, in an injured tone, “why ‘funny’? I trust I have always proved myself your friend and well-wisher, my dear Percy?”
The young man smiled again, and stroked his silky mustache with his white, long, artistic-looking hand.
“Yes—oh, yes! I didn’t mean to be offensive, but you must allow that people don’t generally go about making other people’s fortunes—that’s all. Pray proceed. I’m all impatience, and grateful by anticipation! Goodness knows my fortune needs making very badly!” and he glanced round the room, and down at his shabby velvet jacket, which hung over a chair, with a little grimace.
“Forgive me, my dear Percy, if I remark that the poverty which you lament may be as much your fault as your misfortune.”
“I dare say,” he assented, with good-tempered indolence; “you mean that there is not enough of the busy bee about me, Mr. Churchill?”
The philanthropist shook his head gravely.
“I am afraid you have not been industrious, my dear Percy. Let us for a moment review your position.”
“Review it for half-an-hour if you like,” said the young fellow. “It won’t hurt me, and it will probably amuse you. Meanwhile, here’s something that won’t hurt you and will amuse both of us,” and he opened the door to the urchin who had brought the liquid refreshment. “Go ahead while I mix. Plenty of brandy in yours, eh?”
“Here you are, my dear Percy,” said Mr. Churchill, blandly, “in the possession of youth and health, and—shall I say—remarkable good looks——”