The man ceased to speak and began to nod his head slowly, his gaze on the rug at his feet. Mr. Merriwether could stand it no longer.
“If there is no girl, what in blazes do I get for my million?”
“Your pick of eight.”
“Eight what?”
“Eight perfect daughters-in-law!”
A thought shot through Mr. Merriwether's mind: Was any form of insanity contagious? He looked at the lunatic. The eyes were sane, cold, shrewd, mind-reading eyes full of a sardonic humor.
“They are all,” added the man, as if he wished to dispel unworthy suspicion, “in love.”
“With Tom?”
“With love—like Tom!”
“With love—like Tom!” helplessly repeated Mr. E. H. Merriwether.