Whereupon Melrose protested so vehemently that the young man, in his weakness, did not resist. Rather sulkily, he handed the case back to the greedy hand held out for it.
Then Melrose smiled; if so pleasant a word may be applied to the queer glitter that for a moment passed over the cavernous lines of his face.
"Let me make you an offer for them," he said abruptly.
"Thank you—I don't wish to sell them."
"I mean a good offer—an offer you are not likely to get elsewhere—simply because they happen to fit into my own collection."
"It is very kind of you. But I have a sentiment about them. I have had many offers. But I don't intend to sell them."
Melrose was silent a moment, looking down on the patient, in whose pale cheeks two spots of feverish red had appeared. Then he turned away.
"All right. Don't excite yourself, pray."
"I thought he'd try and get them out of me," thought Faversham irritably, when he was left alone. "But I shan't sell them—whatever he offers."
And vaguely there ran through his mind the phrases of a letter handed to him by his old uncle's solicitor, together with the will: "Keep them for my sake, my dear boy; enjoy them, as I have done. You will be tempted to sell them; but don't, if you can help it. The money would be soon spent; whereas the beauty of these things, the associations connected with them, the thoughts they arouse—would give you pleasure for a lifetime. I have loved you like a father, and I have left you all the little cash I possess. Use that as you will. But that you should keep and treasure the gems which have been so much to me, for my sake—and beauty's—would give me pleasure in the shades—'quo dives Tullus et Ancus'—you know the rest. You are ambitious, Claude. That's well. But keep you heart green."