“Jimmy, are you lying?” demanded Ellsworth.
“Don’t be an ass, old chap,” pleaded Jimmy earnestly. “It’s Gospel truth. You’ve arrived. I never was so pleased in my life, Johnny. Give you my word.” In a handful of sentences he told his tale.
“But what made you stampede, you old goat?” he inquired. “I thought you were happy as a clam after you had hypnotized us with that voice of yours. What got into you?”
And Ellsworth, laughing shakily, told his tale.
“Of course, I didn’t say anything definite,” Pendleton said, “because I wanted you to get the start as your right, not as a boost from me. I thought of Digby at once. So you couldn’t bear it that I’ve got money,” he added, a bit wistfully. “Why, that’s all I’ve got. I haven’t any music, or looks, or genius, or any boy, or”—his voice broke on the little word, but he went on thickly—“or any Margaret.”
There was an odd silence for a second, and Ellsworth slewed about and looked at him. Pendleton’s commonplace blue eyes met his with a look not commonplace, a look defiant and tragic and lonely. The blind was down and the soul of the man was at its windows. Ellsworth’s gaze was a question. Pendleton answered.
“Yes,” he said, “that’s it. I loved her. Nobody else, ever. But of course you won out. And you’ve had her. And you think your life has been hard. Fool, Johnny Ellsworth. Me, I’ve had millions—and nothing else. Millions aren’t particularly cosey to live alone with.”
Ellsworth’s hand was on the other’s now. “I never knew,” he said, stammering the short words.
“Well, you know now,” said Jimmy Pendleton, “and if you grudge me any fun I can get out of being a millionaire, you’re a devil. That boy of yours, I’m going to send him to Yale; I’m going to take him abroad; I’m going to—oh, damn.”
“What?” Ellsworth laughed.