“Small salary be hanged!” snarled Peter.
“—there would be no need for his going to Africa.”
“And how would that help us?” demanded Peter. “Even if the boy were so—so headstrong, so unfilial as to defy his father, who has worked for him all these years, how would that remove the obstacle of Mr. Appleyard’s refusal?”
“Why, don’t you see—” explained the sub-editor.
“No, I don’t,” snapped Peter.
“If, on his declaring to his father that nothing will ever induce him to marry any other woman but Miss Appleyard, his father disowns him, as he thinks it likely—”
“A dead cert!” was Grindley junior’s conviction.
“Very well; he is no longer old Grindley’s son, and what possible objection can Mr. Appleyard have to him then?”
Peter Hope arose and expounded at length and in suitable language the folly and uselessness of the scheme.
But what chance had ever the wisdom of Age against the enthusiasm of Youth, reaching for its object. Poor Peter, expostulating, was swept into the conspiracy. Grindley junior the next morning stood before his father in the private office in High Holborn.