“You know what I mean,” protested Polly. “As he was before he stopped writing.”
“Nor has he stopped writing,” I objected; “his books have stopped selling.” Polly turned upon me eagerly.
“Do you know him?” she demanded. I answered with caution that I had met him.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “tell me about him!”
I was extremely embarrassed. It was a bad place. About myself I could not say anything pleasant, and behind my back, as it were, I certainly was not going to say anything unpleasant. But Polly relieved me of the necessity of saying anything.
“I don't know any man,” she exclaimed fervently, “I would so like to meet!”
It seemed to me that after that the less I said the better. So I told her something was wrong with the engine and by the time I had pretended to fix it, I had led the conversation away from Fletcher Farrell as a novelist to myself as a chauffeur.
The next morning at the hotel, temptation was again waiting for me. This time it came in the form of a letter from my prospective father-in-law. It had been sent from Cape May to my address in New York, and by my servant forwarded in an envelope addressed to “Frederick Fitzgibbon.”
It was what in the world of commerce is called a “follow-up” letter. It recalled the terms of his offer to me, and improved upon them. It made it clear that even after meeting me Mr. Farrell and his wife were still anxious to stand for me as a son. They were good enough to say they had found me a “perfect gentleman.” They hoped that after considering their proposition I had come to look upon it with favor.
As his son, Mr. Farrell explained, my annual allowance would be the interest on one million dollars, and upon his death his entire fortune and property he would bequeath to me. He was willing, even anxious, to put this in writing. In a week he would return to Fairharbor when he hoped to receive a favorable answer. In the meantime he enclosed a letter to his housekeeper.