“I’d like you to try. Anyway, he won’t be rude to you; and I’ve a suspicion that you have some influence over him. You ought to be flattered, because nobody else has.”
Ruth went to the writing-room and stood beside Clay with a reproachful smile. She felt pitiful. The man looked ill.
“We really can’t allow you to leave us in this way,” she said. “Besides, it’s too late to think of business matters.”
“I suppose Aynsley sent you,” he answered with grim bluntness. “It would be better if you took him in hand instead of me. The boy wants looking after; he’s got no nerve.”
“You ought not to blame him for feeling anxious about you. However, I’m your hostess and I don’t think you are treating me well. When I tell you to put away those papers you can’t disobey.”
Clay gave her a steady look.
“Anything you ask me will be done,” he said. “But, as a favor, will you give me another five minutes?”
“Of course. But you might exceed it, so I think I’ll wait.”
Before the time had quite elapsed Clay closed the last envelope with a firm hand, and a few minutes later they entered the drawing-room and Aynsley gave Ruth a grateful glance.
When Clay returned to Vancouver he called at once on the doctor; and when he left his face was grim, for he had been plainly told that he was worse, and must change his mode of life at once; but this was more than Clay could consent to do. He had money in a number of ventures, none of which had yet achieved the success he looked for. Time was needed before he could bring them to the desired consummation, and if he sold out now it must be at a sacrifice of the handsome profit that might otherwise be secured. He would be left with only a moderate fortune, and he meant to be rich. Ambitious as he was for his son, he had also a keen reluctance to leaving his work half finished. In fact, it was obvious that he must hold on for a year or two longer.