Mr. Merriwether, after a thoughtful pause, said: “Look here! I don't know anything about my son's engagement. I cannot swear he is not engaged, but I don't know that he is. It follows that I do not know the young lady. You don't have to print that, do you?”
The reporter gazed on the financier meditatively. Presently, instead of answering the question, he asked:
“Have you had no suspicion of any romance?”
“Well”—and it was plain that E. H. Merriwether was telling the truth, having made up his mind to that policy as being the wisest—“well, I have of late suspected that such a thing might be possible. It is, I will confess to you, a terrible predicament, because a man naturally cherishes certain hopes for his only son.” On Mr. Merriwether's face there was a quite human look of suffering.
“Of course,” said the reporter, apologetically, as though offering an excuse for a friend's misdeed—“of course a man in love is not always wise.”
“No. And though I have no intention or desire to bribe you, and though I would not presume to interfere with you in your professional activities or influence you by pecuniary considerations, you will pardon me for suggesting—”
The reporter did not let him go on. He rose and said, with real dignity:
“Mr. Merriwether, suppose we drop the matter right here?”
“You mean?”
“I will not print any story yet—on one condition.”