“Only five dollars are missing,” he said in a tone of satisfaction.
“Have you a son?” asked Gerald. “I think I heard my father say you had one somewhere near my own age.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“My son—Victor—is seventeen. You have one advantage over him.”
“What is that, sir?”
“You are a poor man’s son.”
“Do you consider that an advantage?”
“Money is a temptation,” returned Bradley Wentworth slowly, “especially to a boy. Victor knows that I am rich—that is, moderately rich,” he added cautiously, “and he feels at liberty to spend money, often in ways that don’t do him any good. He buys clothes extravagantly, but that does no harm outside of the expense. I am sorry to say that he has contracted a taste for drink, and has given several champagne suppers to his friends. I suppose you don’t indulge yourself in that way,” Wentworth added, with a faint smile.
“I have heard of champagne, but I never tasted it,” returned Gerald.