“How much do you propose to deposit with us?”
“Oh,” said Grinnell, with a smile full of an ingratiatory humour, “if you are still frightened I’ll only deposit a million a week. I suppose I ought to start a bank of my own.” Mr. Dawson and Mellen exchanged quick glances, unperceived by the young man, since the young man continued to smile, almost boyishly.
“Yes; you must not dream that you can produce two hundred and fifty millions a year,” said Mr. Mellen, ignoring the last bomb, about the bank. “That would not do at all.”
“I think it would. Even at that rate it would take a man some time to catch up with your fortune, Mr. Mellen.”
“It isn’t a question of my fortune, Mr. Grinnell,” Mellen said in a kindly voice, “but of the fortunes of all the world; yours as well.”
“I have no objections to seeing my fortune many times larger than it is, I assure you.”
“Neither have we, provided you take your time about it, said Mr. Dawson earnestly.
“I know I am young, but there are many things I wish to do before I die. Life is uncertain.”
“Yes, it is. And if you died?” asked Mellen. He leaned forward slightly as he spoke, his eyes on the young man’s.
“My sister would do what she could.”