"What did he want?"
"Well, he wanted to see you. Something about the selling of my uncle's house."
"He is losing no time," observed Mark, acrimony in his tone. "I wonder he didn't begin about it yesterday when we were there, hearing the will read. But what have I do with it?"
"He wants us to take the house--to buy it, I think."
"I daresay he does," retorted Mark, after a pause of surprise. "Where's the money to come from?"
"There's that money of mine. He said it would be a good investment."
"Did he! I wonder what business it is of his! Carine, my dear, you and I are quite capable of managing our own affairs, without being dictated to."
"Of course we are!" answered Carine, rather firing at the absent Mr. Wheatley, as this new view was presented to her.
Mark said no more just then. He finished his dinner, and had the things taken away. Then, instead of sitting down to his wine, his usual custom, he stood up on the hearth-rug, as though he were cold--or restless. Mark Cray had been reared to extravagance in a petted home, and looked for his wine daily, as surely as any old alderman looks for it. Oswald Cray, reared without a home, and to schoolboy fare, adhered still, in a general way, to the water to which he had been trained. Oswald's plan was the most profitable, so far as the pocket was concerned, and the health too.
"I say, Carine, I want to go to London for a day."