“It’s very good of you to come,” he said, as he rose from his chair and shook hands. “I’m all alone to-day,—that is, until Sylvia comes in. Craig is in town.”
“Ah!” commented Durham, gruffly. “Why don’t he stay there?”
Dr. Maynard looked a trifle uneasy and embarrassed, but answered nothing.
“Why don’t he stay there?” Durham repeated, with increased asperity. “That book of yours on ‘The Deterioration of Language’ ought to have been done with months ago,—only he won’t let it be done with! He’s a human sponge,—that’s what he is. You’re paying him for his work—”
“Not as much as he could demand if he liked,” interrupted the old Doctor, quickly. “He’s really giving me the benefit of his great scholarship for a mere song in regard to terms—I couldn’t afford to pay him his just price,—the price he could get anywhere—”
“But you throw in food and lodging,” said Durham. “Food of the best and lodging of the greatest comfort. You also throw in the companionship of your pretty daughter and allow him to make love to her!”
“I don’t!... I don’t!” exclaimed Maynard, excitedly. “I know he admires the child—”
“You bet he does!” and Durham wrinkled up his forehead in a saturnine frown. “And also admires the house she lives in and the fortune you are likely to leave her! You bet! He wasn’t made a sponge for nothing. His business is to soak up things. He has soaked up enough learning; and now he wants to soak up a few creature comforts for his old age! Maynard, keep your eyes open!”
“I do, I do!” exclaimed the poor old scholar, in evident distress. “But I can’t help it if Craig falls in love with the girl, can I?”
“Falls in love? He? That pragmatical, self-conscious, learned prig! He couldn’t fall in love if he tried—I don’t suppose he ever has tried, not even when he was young, if he ever was young! I could do the business better myself!”