Mr. Merriwether leaned back and thought some more. To him the million-dollar loss was already ancient history. The only virtue that the Wall Street life gives to a professional is the ability to take a loss of money with more or less philosophy. That philosophy is also met on the race-track, and among experts in faro as well as among real Christians.
McWayne and the man were gone an hour and eighteen minutes. Mr. Merriwether had time to think of Tom and of himself and of the relation that had existed between himself and his son, and of the relations that would exist between them in the future—God willing.
“Mr. McWayne!” announced the servant.
The private secretary entered; also the Irishman with the two valises.
“Tell the others! At five o'clock!” said the master of the house, and the footman left the room—with the valises!
“Mr. McWayne, will you kindly wait in the other room?” The man rose and parted the portières for the secretary to pass through.
“Certainly,” said McWayne, frowning politely. “Now, Mr. Merriwether,” said the man, “as I told you, Tom's mind and soul are prepared for love. The romantic vein in him has been worked to the limit. He can be laughed out of it very easily, for he is not entirely convinced; but it is too valuable a frame of mind for a really intelligent father to destroy. The young ladies, also, are ripe for the coming of the one man in all the world. They will respond readily—and, I may add, respond with relief if they see he is a man like your son, against whom nothing can be said. It will clinch the affair. My advice is for you to call on the young ladies I have mentioned and judge for yourself, and then you be your own stage-manager!”
“Have you any choice yourself?”
“You know Woodford?”
“Very well.”