He sat down on the box, holding the bottle between his knees.
“They christened me that. Very foolishly, I think. But what do you know of Bulwer Runyon?”
“Your mother—is—Martha Runyon?”
“To be sure—bless her heart! Ah, you know my mother, then, and that’s how you have heard of me. But nothing good, from the dear old lady’s lips, I’ll be bound.”
“She really loves you,” replied Mildred quickly; “only—you have disappointed her.”
“Indeed I have. I’ve always disappointed her, ever since I can remember.”
“You were very extravagant,” said Mildred in a reproachful tone.
“Yes; that was my fault. Father spoiled me; then he died and left all his fortune to mother. Quite right. But mother is pretty close with her money.”
“Did she not pay all your debts?”
“Yes; but that was foolish. She reproached me for owing people, which was one of my pet recreations. So she paid the bills, bought me a ranch out here, shipped me into exile and washed her hands of me, declaring that the ranch was my sole inheritance and I must never expect another cent of her fortune. She proposes, I believe, to invest her surplus in charity. Nice idea, wasn’t it?”