Francis nodded.
“She has asked me to call upon her to-morrow.”
“Exactly. Now, forgive my troubling you with personal details, but you've got to understand. I mean Miss Wendermott to be my wife.”
Francis sat up in his chair genuinely surprised. Something like a scowl was on his dark, sallow face.
“Your wife!” he exclaimed, “aren't you joking, Trent?”
“I am not,” Trent answered sharply. “From the moment I saw her that has been my fixed intention. Every one thinks of me as simply a speculator with the money fever in my veins. Perhaps that was true once. It isn't now! I must be rich to give her the position she deserves. That's all I care for money.”'
“I am very much interested,” Francis said slowly, “to hear of your intentions. Hasn't it occurred to you, however, that your behaviour toward Miss Wendermott's father will take a great deal of explanation?”
“If there is no interference,” Trent said, “I can do it. There is mystery on her part too, for I offered a large reward and news of him through my solicitor, and she actually refused to reply. She has refused any money accruing to her through her father, or to be brought into contact with any one who could tell her about him.”
“The fact,” Francis remarked drily, “is scarcely to her credit. Monty may have been disreputable enough, I've no doubt he was; but his going away and staying there all these years was a piece of noble unselfishness.”
“Monty has been hardly used in some ways,” Trent said. “I've done my best by him, though.”