“People with a couple of millions generally are—gilt ornaments,” remarked Varley Howard.
“An estimable man,” continued Mr. Pinchook, “though, somewhat er—er—hard in his dealings.”
“People with two millions always are,” remarked Varley Howard.
“Our late client, Mr. Gordon Chetwynde”—he pronounced the name as if it produced a pleasant flavor in his mouth—“became a widower soon after his marriage, and was left with an only daughter—an extremely touching position, Mr. Howard.”
“For a two-millionaire—yes,” assented Varley Howard. “If he had been a curate he would have had half a dozen daughters and three or four sons thrown in.”
“Er—er—just so. My client, Mr. Gordon Chetwynde, was extremely devoted to his daughter, and er—not unreasonably desired to see her suitably married. Unfortunately, although she had several brilliant offers, she fell in love with a quite ineligible young man with no—er—settled occupation or prospects, and with not the best of characters.”
“Daughters of millionaires are generally given to that sort of thing, aren’t they?” said Varley Howard.
“Our client did all he could to separate the young people, but, I regret to say, that his well-meant efforts only resulted in a clandestine marriage.”
“They always do,” said Varley Howard. “What’s the use of being a daughter of a millionaire if you can’t marry whom you please?”
Mr. Pinchook looked rather shocked by this sentiment, and, with another dry cough, continued: