"You don't say so!" exclaimed Mrs. Budge and Florrie in one breath.
Up in the Chinese room Madame Forsyth was saying; "Do you think any child of that—branch of the family—could take the place of—"
"Oh, dear Madame," interrupted the lawyer. "I am not suggesting such a thing! I know how impossible that would be. But on my own responsibility I have made investigations and I have ascertained that your husband's nephew has the one child. The nephew's an artist of sorts and doubtless has his ups and downs—most artists do. Now I suggest—"
"That I take this—child—"
Mr. Allendyce tactfully ignored the scorn in her voice. "Exactly," he purred. "Exactly. Gordon is the child's name. A very nice name, I am sure."
"The child of an obscure artist—"
"Ah, but, Madame, blood is blood. A Forsyth—"
"P'ff!" Madame made a sound like rock hitting rock. Indeed, as she sat there, her narrow eyes gleaming from her immobile face, her thin lips tightly compressed, she looked much more like rock than flesh-and-blood.
Her explosion had the effect of exasperating the little lawyer out of his habitual attitude of conciliation.
"Madame, I can do no more than advise you in this matter. I have traced down this child as a possible heir to the Forsyth fortune. However, you have it in your power to will otherwise. But let me say this—not as a lawyer but as your friend. You are growing old. Will you not find, perhaps, more happiness in your old age, if you bring a little youth into this melancholy old house—"