The philanthropist nodded gravely.
“I confess it, my dear Percy. I have considered the question in all its numerous bearings, and I am convinced that I shall be promoting both her future welfare and yours by—er—bringing you together.”
Percy Levant stared at him.
“This grows serious,” he said. “And may I ask if this young lady is ‘rich in this world’s goods,’ as you so beautifully put it?”
“She is—or, rather, she will be,” replied Spenser Churchill, leaning forward, and speaking in a lower tone, and with his eyes fixed on the other man’s face with a keen, yet covert watchfulness. “I said that there were peculiar and romantic circumstances in the case, and one of them is this, that the young lady has no idea of the wealth which will some day be hers.”
“Oh!” said Percy, curtly, “she hasn’t, eh? Yes, that’s peculiar, certainly. I suppose there is no doubt about the golden future, eh?”
“It is as certain as that you and I are in this room.”
“And the romance—where does that come in?”
“Her story is a singular one. Her name——” he stopped suddenly, and smiled blandly, “but perhaps I’d better reserve that for a while, my dear Percy.”
“Yes, you’d better,” rejoined the young man, sarcastically. “I might go in for the speculation on my own account, and throw you over! Churchill, for a saint, you are singularly suspicious!”