At this statement Titus lost the attention of his companion. Mr. Hittaker’s face became more dreamy. His mind was wandering away into regions where the boy could not follow it. He thought Mr. Hittaker looked ill. He certainly was in a peculiar state mentally. Minute after minute he stood silently, his eyes fixed on vacancy.
Titus leaned against the wall and watched him. Finally, just as his young limbs began to ache from inaction, Mr. Hittaker roused himself, turned to him, and said, abruptly, “We were speaking of your grandfather. When will he come home?”
“Probably not till near dinner time. It is such a fine day.”
“I planned to take the seven o’clock train back to New York,” said Mr. Hittaker, slowly, “but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter.”
“Stay all night, sir,” said Titus, hospitably. “Then you will have time to talk to my grandfather. But,” he went on, slowly, “I hope you are not to ask him for Bethany. It wouldn’t be any use. We can’t give her up.”
Mr. Hittaker stared moodily at him and made no reply.
“My grandfather doesn’t think an awful sight of money,” said the boy, proudly.
“Money,” repeated his caller, and a gleam illuminated his small eyes and sharp, shrewd face. “Show me the man that doesn’t care for it, or the woman, either.”
“Grandfather does care for it, in a way,” Titus went on, earnestly. “He thinks you can do a lot of good and be a great power in the world if you have plenty of money, but he preaches to us all the time about not thinking too much of riches.”
“Easy to talk,” replied Mr. Hittaker, with some show of interest in the subject. “If you were that black stable boy you couldn’t have all this,” and he looked about the well appointed loft.