“Oh, to borrow four dollars of him, of course,” he replied dryly.
“You needn’t be angry at me. You see, dad’s time is valuable.”
“Indeed? To whom?”
“Why, to himself, of course.”
“Oh, well, my time—However, that doesn’t matter. I haven’t wholly wasted it.” He glanced toward the beggar, who was profoundly regarding the cathedral clock.
“If you like, I’ll get you an interview with dad,” she offered magnanimously.
“Me? No, I thank you,” he said crisply. “I’m not patient of unnecessary red tape.”
Miss Brewster looked at him in surprise. It was borne in upon her, as she looked, that this man was not accustomed to being lightly regarded by other men, however busy or important; that his own concerns in life were quite as weighty to him, and in his esteem, perhaps, to others, as were the interests of any magnate; and that, man to man, there would be no shyness or indecision or purposelessness anywhere in his make-up.
“If it was important,” she began hesitantly, “my father would be—”
“It was of no importance to me,” he cut in. “To others—Perhaps I could see some one else of your party.”