"And some day will you call me Thomas?"
"Yes… When you return."
Somewhere back I spoke of Magic Carpets we writer chaps have. A thing of flimsy dreams and fancies! But I forgot the millionaire's. His is real, made of legal-tenders woven intricately, wonderfully. Does he wish a palace, a yacht, a rare jewel? Whiz! There you are, sir. No flowery flourishes; the cold, hard, beautiful facts of reality. Killigrew had his Magic Carpet, and he spread it out and stood on it as he and Mrs. Killigrew viewed the pair out on the terrace. (The millionaire can sometimes wish happiness with his Carpet.)
"Molly, I'm going to send Thomas down to Rio. He'll be worth exactly fifteen hundred the year… for years. But I'm going to give him five thousand the first year, ten thousand the next, and twenty thereafter… if he sticks. And I think he will. He'll never be any the wiser." He paused tantalizingly.
"Well?" demanded Mrs. Killigrew, smiling.
"Well, neither will Kitty."