“You’re right,” he nodded; “but I was all tied up with business this afternoon.”
She raised her dark brows a trifle.
“Business?”
“Lots of it,” he nodded. “Come over here and sit down; I want to tell you about it.”
He led her to a chair before the open fire. He himself continued to stand with his back to the flames. He was not serious. The situation 22 struck him now as even funnier than it had in Barton’s office. He had in his pocket just thirteen cents, and yet here he was in Stuyvesant’s house, engaged to Stuyvesant’s daughter.
“It seems,” he began––“it seems that Dad would have his little joke before he died.”
“Yes?” she responded indifferently. She was bored by business of any sort.
“I had a talk to-day with Barton––his lawyer. Queer old codger, Barton. Seems he’s been made my guardian. Dad left him to me in his will. He left me Barton, the house, and twelve dollars and sixty-three cents.”
“Yes, Don.”
She did not quite understand why he was going into details. They did not seem to concern her, even as his fiancée.