“Yes,” said Gordon, with the indifference that comes from non-participation.
“And I'm the only business man in it,” significantly.
Gordon nodded his head, awaiting further developments.
“Which means that I could work another man into it. I might find out that we could not get on without him.”
The black eyes seemed to probe the good-natured, sensual face of Maurice Gordon, so keen, so searching was their glance.
“And I would be willing to do it—to make that man's fortune—provided—that he was—my brother-in-law.”
“What the devil do you mean?” asked Gordon, setting down the glass that was half raised to his lips.
“I mean that I want to marry—Jocelyn.”
And the modern school of realistic, mawkishly foul novelists, who hold that Love excuseth all, would have taken delight in the passionate rendering of the girl's name.
“Want to marry Jocelyn, do you?” answered Maurice, with a derisive little laugh. On the first impulse of the moment he gave no thought to himself or his own interests, and spoke with undisguised contempt. He might have been speaking to a beggar on the roadside.