“I want it dreadfully! I have been poor all my life, and have longed to be rich, and I would rather live here, in this house, than anywhere else in the world. If we are going to live together and be friends we ought to be honest with each other from the beginning. It’s selfish, but it’s true! I want the money, and I mean to do every single thing in my power to get it.”
“Bravo!” cried a man’s voice suddenly. Mollie was frowning and biting her lips in obvious discomfort; Victor Druce’s drooping lids once more hid his eyes from sight as he stood with folded arms leaning against the palm. It was Jack Melland who had spoken—Jack Melland, roused for once to display unqualified approval and enthusiasm. He bent forward on his seat, hands in his pockets, his tall, lithe figure swaying gently to and fro as he faced Ruth with his bright blue eyes.
“Bravo, Miss Farrell! I admire your honesty, and wish you good luck. You are perfectly justified in doing all you can to gain your point, and I sincerely hope you may be successful. It is only right that a Farrell should inherit the Court, and if you were the old man’s grand-daughter, you could not possibly be more like him.”
Ruth flushed, but did not reply. Victor Druce’s measured voice cut like a sword across the silence.
“You are unselfish, Melland! Are you quite sure that you share the honesty which you admire so much in Miss Farrell? Have you forgotten how the question affects yourself?”
Jack Melland jumped lightly to the ground and straightened his long back.
“Unselfish or not, it’s the truth. The question does not affect me at all. I am not going to stay!”