"So! You're one of these socialist cranks."
Blake laughed outright. "It's the cranks that make the world go 'round! No; I've been too busy boosting for Number One—like you—to let myself think of the other fellow. The trouble with that crazy outfit is they want to set you to working for the people, instead of working the people. No; I've steered clear of them. 'Fraid I might get infected with altruism. Like you, I'm a born anarchist—excuse me!—individualist. What would become of those who have the big interests of the country at heart if they didn't have the big interests in hand?"
Mr. Leslie ignored the sarcasm. "Either you're a fool, or you're playing a deep game. It occurs to me you may have heard that my daughter has money in her own right."
"Three million, she said," assented Blake.
"She told you!"
"Guess she told me more than she seems to have told you."
"About what?"
"Ask her."
Mr. Leslie's eyes narrowed to thin slits. "Her aunt wrote me that she suspected you had the effrontery to—aspire to my daughter's hand. I couldn't believe it possible."
"That so?" said Blake with calm indifference.