“I will—and thank you,” said Westbrook after a momentary hesitation.
To his daughter John Barrington said a little later:
“Oh, I’ve invited Mr. Westbrook up to dinner tomorrow night.”
“Mr. Westbrook!”
“Why, yes—why not? You seem surprised.”
“Gilding does count, doesn’t it, father dear?”
“Eh? Gilding? My dear, I don’t know what you mean. I know he’s rich as mud—if that’s what you’re talking about; but he’s got more than money—he’s got brains. He knows as much about mines as I do! I like him—he’s worth a dozen of the youths that usually flutter about you.”
“Perhaps he is,” laughed Ethel, the color in her cheeks deepening.
That was but the first of many visits. Barrington was urgent, Ethel charmingly cordial—and Westbrook, nothing loth.