“What do you say? Nothing in that, I fancy. But I must see about that, what?”
“Oh, let it go,” said Romayne.
“Gwynne was after me again to take the treasurership,” said Waring-Gaunt, “but I am busy with so many things—treasurership very hampering—demands close attention—that sort of thing, eh, what?”
“Personally I wish you would take it,” said Romayne. “You would be able to protect your own money and the investments of your friends. Besides, I understand the manager is to be a German, which, with a German secretary, is too much German for my idea.”
“Oh, you don't like Switzer, eh? Natural, I suppose. Don't like him myself; bounder sort of chap—but avoid prejudice, my boy, eh, what? German—that sort of thing—don't do in this country, eh? English, Scotch, Irish, French, Galician, Swede, German—all sound Canadians—melting pot idea, eh, what?”
“I am getting that idea, too,” said his brother-in-law. “Sybil has been rubbing it into me. I believe it is right enough. But apart altogether from that, frankly I do not like that chap; I don't trust him. I fancy I know a gentleman when I see him.”
“All right, all right, my boy, gentleman idea quite right too—but new country, new standards—'Old Family' idea played out, don't you know. Burke's Peerage not known here—every mug on its own bottom—rather touchy Canadians are about that sort of thing—democracy stuff and all that you know. Not too bad either, eh, what? for a chap who has got the stuff in him—architect of his fortune—founder of his own family and that sort of thing, don't you know. Not too bad, eh, what?”
“I quite agree,” cried Jack, “at least with most of it. But all the same I hope you will take the treasurership. Not only will you protect your own and your friends' investments, but you will protect the interests of the Gwynnes. The father apparently is no business man, the son is to be away; anything might happen. I would hate to see them lose out. You understand?”
His brother-in-law turned his eyes upon him, gazed at him steadily for a few moments, then taking his hand, shook it warmly, exclaiming, “Perfectly, old chap, perfectly—good sort, Gwynne—good family. Girl of the finest—hope you put it off, old boy. Madame has put me on, you know, eh, what? Jolly good thing.”
“Now what the deuce do you mean?” said Romayne angrily.