Hubbard nodded. There was no way out that he could see.
"But you do promise not to tell old Dyall that I'm my father instead of me?" Emrys asked anxiously.
"Even if he believed me, he wouldn't care. All he wants is a good match for that great-great-granddaughter of his."
But was that all? As far as money went, Nicholas Dyall was reputed to be the richest man alive. And if he was truly fond of the girl, would he not at least have investigated the young man?
"You're hard!" Emrys complained, but without rancor.
"I have a suspicious nature," Hubbard said thoughtfully. "Perhaps it's the legal mind. At any rate, I don't care for Nicholas Dyall."
"Well, I don't either, but I don't really give a hang what kind of a great-great-grandfather-in-law I'm getting. All I care about is Megan. Do you think it's wrong for me to ask her to marry me?"
"Can't you understand that, at this stage, the girl doesn't matter?"
"No," Emrys said simply. "I cannot imagine her not mattering."
After he had gone, Hubbard still found himself thinking about Nicholas Dyall. In his whole lifetime, the old lawyer had personally known only two men whom society had deemed worthy of its highest honor, the longevity treatment. And these were more than most men had met, for the longevity treatment was given to very few. Both of the two, Dyall and Shortmire, had some defect in their personalities that warped them—all but completely, in Shortmire's case—away from the human virtues.