"Such an offer as that is merely a joke," was Hamilton's contemptuous retort.
"What do you think it's worth?"
"Conservatively, a million."
"Oh, absurd!" Morton exclaimed, reprovingly; but his voice retained its pleasant quality. "Dear me! Youth is so hasty! Now, my boy, the truth is that you know your factory isn't worth anything like that sum."
"I suspect that you have forgotten five fat years of prospective profits." There came a groan from Carrington at this reference, and Morton's face lost for a moment its wheedling amiability. But the latter's discomfiture was of the briefest, if one might judge by appearance.
"Is a million your lowest figure?" he demanded. Then, as a nod of assent from the owner answered his question, he added: "And a sixty-days' option goes with your offer?"
Hamilton, however, had other conditions to impose.
"If you take over the control," he asked, "do I stay in charge as president and manager? I must stipulate for that."
"Oh, well," Morton agreed graciously, "the brain that could pull off this deal ought to be of some use to us.... All right, my boy."
At this final statement from the magnate, Cicily could not forbear a subdued ripple of laughter. "The brain that could pull off this deal"—oh, splendid! Who now would dare deny that she was a partner in very truth, a partner worth while!... Then, her inspiration again urged her on. She was beset with feverish impatience, as the four men dallied tediously over their adieux. When, at last, the visitors were safely out of the house, the young wife bore down like a whirlwind on Delancy. She could not waste even a word on Hamilton yet.