“How much of it is there?”
“Why, there’s the old lady, and two grown daughters and a son. The son’s a fine chap, they say—the old man took him in hand and put him at work in the shops. But I suppose he thought that daughters were too much of a proposition for him, and so he sent them to a fancy school—and, I tell you, they’re the most highly polished human specimens that ever you encountered!”
It sounded entertaining. “But what does Oliver want with them?” asked Montague, wonderingly.
“It isn’t that he wants them—they want him. They’re climbers, you know—perfectly frantic. They’ve come to town to get into Society.”
“Then you mean that they pay Oliver?” asked Montague.
“I don’t know that,” said the other, with a laugh. “You’ll have to ask Ollie. They’ve a number of the little brothers of the rich hanging round them, picking up whatever plunder’s in sight.”
A look of pain crossed Montague’s face; and she saw it, and put out her hand with a sudden gesture. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “I’ve offended you!”
“No,” said he, “it’s not that exactly—I wouldn’t be offended. But I’m worried about my brother.”
“How do you mean?”
“He gets a lot of money somehow, and I don’t know what it means.”