“And you think—you think I have no right to leave my son the inheritance I have worked and saved for him.”
“I think you have no right to leave him your—greed. ’Tis a mortal poor inheritance for any lad.”
“Your vocabulary is rather blunt.” Burgeman smiled faintly. “But it is very refreshing. It is a long time since naked truth and I met face to face.”
“But will it do you any good—or is it too late?” Patsy eyed him contemplatively.
“Too late for what?”
“Too late for the inheritance—too late to give it away somewhere else—or loan it for a few years till the lad had a chance to find out if he could make some decent use of it himself. There’s many ways of doing it; I have thought of a few this last half-hour. You might loan it to the President to buy up some of the railroads for the government—or to purchase the coal or oil supply; or you might offer it as a prize to the country that will stop fighting first; or it might buy clean politics into some of the cities—or endow a university.” She laughed. “It’s odd, isn’t it, how a body without a cent to her name can dispose of a few score millions—in less minutes?”
“If you please, sir.” A motionless, impersonal figure in livery stood at a respectful distance behind the wheel-chair. Neither of them had been conscious of his presence.
“Well, Parsons?”
“Mr. Billy, sir, has come back, sir. He and Mr. Fitzpatrick came together. Shall I bring them out here or wheel you inside, sir?”