“And one more thing,” said Mr. Carteret; “what I said about Barclay’s trustee was somewhat misleading, because, don’t you see, the trust comes to an end in six weeks.”
“And then,” said Lady Withers, “do I understand that he will have control of his own fortune?”
“Unconditionally,” said Mr. Carteret. “And I may say that he is so awfully rich that to avoid beggars and anarchists he keeps his name out of the telephone-book, which in New York is something like the equivalent of being a duke in England.”
“When will the first ship-load of the horses arrive?” asked Lady Withers.
Mr. Carteret was taken aback, but an idea came to him. “It has just occurred to me,” he said, “that a neighbor of ours in Wyoming is sending over some horses in the course of the next few days. I could wire him and have him bring over two or three for samples—patterns, you call them; and then, if they are what you approve of, we shall have a ship-load come over.”
“Excellent!” said Lady Withers. “Wire him at once, and you also had better wire your manager, so that there may be no delay.”
“I will,” said Mr. Carteret. “And, by the way,” he added, “if Cecil should need an assistant, do you think Captain Brinton would do?”
Lady Withers thought a moment, and looked doubtful. “He’s a nice boy,” she said, “and without a penny; but he’s so mad about Christina Dalrymple that he would be good for nothing in the way of an assistant to lighten Cecil’s duties. He bores poor dear Mary nearly to death confiding his love-affairs to her.”
“Then we can leave the position of assistant manager open,” said Mr. Carteret.