“But it’s a grand thing for you. Easy for you to go and hang up your hat behind the door of as nice a bit of property as I ever saw. Pretty young wife, and your yacht, and a racehorse or two: you’ll be able to do that. By George, you’re a lucky man.”
Glyddyr drew a long breath, and Gellow threw himself on the padded seat.
“Might as well have shaken hands,” he said; “but, bah! it’s only form. Very sad about the old chap, but a grand stroke of fate for you. I’m glad you’ve stopped on here. Very wise: because, of course, there’s sure to be a shoal of poor relatives wanting to nibble the cake—your cake—our cake, eh?”
“So that’s why you’ve come down?”
“Yes. Been sooner, but a certain lady has taken up a lot of my time. You didn’t want her here now. I’ve plenty of time, though. I knew you were on the spot, and that nothing would be done till the old gentleman had been put away quietly, and the lady had time to order the mourning. Oh, I say, Glyddyr! you’ll excuse me, but—”
“But what, man?”
“Don’t be so snaggy to a man who is helping you. But what bad form.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Look at yourself in the glass. Promised wife in deep mourning, and you in blue serge and a red tie. Why, you ought to be as solemn looking as an undertaker.”
Glyddyr involuntarily glanced at himself in a mirrored panel at the side of the saloon.