“Bricks and mortar. Cottages. I don’t want an architect. I’ll employ the man we used in Hampshire.”
“You mean to build?”
“I mean to build.”
Mr. Clisson coughed. “The late Mr. Masters found it did not pay––”
“Mr. Clisson,” said Christopher firmly, “let us understand one another from the beginning. I do not intend to work on the same lines as my father worked. I intend to do many things which he would not have done, but I am inclined to think he knew it would be so. I believe I am a very rich man. At all events I mean to spend a lot of money. You would have no objection to my spending it on yachts and motors and grouse moors, I suppose? These things do not, however, interest me. You probably won’t approve of my hobbies, and I’ve no doubt I shall make heaps of mistakes, but I’ve got to find them out myself. You can help me make them, but once for all, never try to prevent me. Those are all the letters I can manage to-day. You can take the others. I’ll answer these myself.”
The flabbergasted Mr. Clisson rose, trembling a little in his agitation.
“I hope, Mr. Masters, I should know better than ever attempt to dictate to you on any matter.”
Christopher gave him one of his rare half-shy, 378 half-boyish smiles and leant forward over the big desk.
“Mr. Clisson, I shall need your help and advice every hour of the day. I haven’t the slightest doubt you could dictate to me to my great material advantage on every point, only I don’t care for this material advantage and I don’t want us to misunderstand each other, that is all.”
Mr. Clisson thawed, but his soul was troubled. He looked at the letters as he gathered them up. It was a goodly pile yet left to his decision, but he missed one that Christopher had passed over without comment.