“I thought he ran a preparatory school.”
There was the profoundest resentment in Prothero's voice.
“And, all the same, I'm going to be a rich man.”
“I don't understand,” said Prothero, without any shadow of congratulation.
Benham told Prothero as much as his mother had conveyed to him of the resources of his wealth. Her version had been adapted to his tender years and the delicacies of her position. The departed Nolan had become an eccentric godfather. Benham's manner was apologetic, and he made it clear that only recently had these facts come to him. He had never suspected that he had had this eccentric godfather. It altered the outlook tremendously. It was one of the reasons that made Benham glad to have Prothero there, one wanted a man of one's own age, who understood things a little, to try over one's new ideas. Prothero listened with an unamiable expression.
“What would you do, Prothero, if you found yourself saddled with some thousands a year?”
“Godfathers don't grow in Brixton,” said Prothero concisely.
“Well, what am I to do, Prothero?”
“Does all THIS belong to you?”
“No, this is my mother's.”