"An uncle of mine died and very unexpectedly left me several million dollars. I considered myself justified under the circumstances in following the bottom of the real estate market; that is, dropping out."
"Then you are the Fenton," declared Varden, shaking hands again. "I read something in a New York paper about a young Canadian coming into a big pile, but I never thought it would be you. Why, that possibility never entered my mind. Congratulations, old man, congratulations!"
"The congratulations should be mutual, Varden," said Fenton. "I remember when one Percival Varden was getting his fifteen per week, and wasn't worth that any more than I was my twelve per—according to that honest gentleman, that fair-minded director of budding journalists, George W. Jackson, city editor of the News Despatch—the unspeakable cur!"
"Then time hasn't cured you of your reverence for dear old Jackson—the ill-bred beast!" said Varden, with a laugh that ended in a growl.
"No, I'll never give up my grudge until I have a chance to assign Jackson to cover an August excursion to Hades. They would never let him come back."
"Still, they were happy days in Montreal, weren't they?" said Varden. "But I guess I ought to explain about my good fortune. I returned to England and met Baroness Draschol in London. We fell in love, and that wonderful woman overlooked my personal deficiencies, my poverty and my lack of position, and actually married me! My wife is connected with the royal family of Ironia and owns so much property I haven't found out about it all yet. And yet she married me, poor old hack scribbler that I was. Fenton, when you meet her you'll wonder too how it could ever have happened. I've been married three years and I'm still dazed at my wonderful good fortune."
"Three years married and still in the raving state!" jeered Fenton. "One week generally serves to translate a bridegroom from that condition. Varden, you must be the luckiest fellow in the world."
"I am," affirmed Varden emphatically. "But wait until you see Sonia. She'll be delighted to meet you. We've often talked about you. And by Jove, Don, you are looking well!"
Fenton was about thirty years of age—a handsome fellow in a healthy, outdoor sort of way. He stood over six feet, broad-shouldered and straight-limbed. Set him in a crowd in any country of dark-pigmented, short-statured men and he stood out by contrast like a Norse god. It is not likely that any woman would ever refuse him the tribute of a second glance. And yet Fenton was not in any sense a lady's man. The firm mouth, the strong jaw and clear eye told of resolve, of determination, of self-reliance. He had a finely chiselled face, a frank, clean, open face. Fenton was a manly man. It was said of him that he stood four-square to every wind that blew.
"Married yet?" went on Varden.