“What did he answer?” queried Welles.
“Oh, he is crazy, all right. He answered, 'Yes—with joy! Please send trunks to Thornton's Hotel—'”
“What?” Ashton Welles rose to his feet, his face livid. It was the London hotel where Mrs. Deering lived, the hotel to which Mrs. Welles was going!
“What's the matter?” asked Jerningham, in amazement.
“N-nothing!” said Ashton Welles, huskily. He gulped twice. Then, having spent thirty-five years in Wall Street making money, he explained, “I've got a terrible toothache!” And he put his hand to his left cheek.
“I'm sorry!” said Jemingham so sympathetically that Welles, for all his distress—and nothing is so inherently selfish as suffering—felt a kindly feeling toward the man from Alaska. “Could I ask your advice about a business matter?”
“Certainly!”
Ashton Welles tried to smile. It was ghastly, but Jemingham did not remark it. He said, placidly:
“I've bought quite a little bunch of VanTwiller stock because you are its president, Mr. Welles. On my honor, that is my only reason. I've paid good prices, too; but you are worth it—to me!” And Jemingham beamed adoringly on the efficient president of the VanTwiller Trust Company.
Ashton Welles said, “Thank you!” and even tried to feel grateful to this queer character from the frozen North who was so naïve in his admiration—and envied him for not having a young wife who had sailed on the same steamer with an exceedingly attractive young man.