“But this is the end of the nineteenth century,” laughed Roderick.
“I don't deny it. The other is a fact, all the same. The late Mr. Defries's will is valid. Appointing my father trustee for his daughter Ella, it provides for his administration of the estate until either her marriage with his consent or his own death, whichever is first. On either of these events, the whole money comes into her own keeping. If during his lifetime she marries without his written consent, the money all goes to some specified charity, I forget what it is.”
“Well, I never heard of such a damned silly will in all my life,” said Roderick, falling, into the vernacular.
“It only shows one man's implicit trust in the honour of another.”
“And how much does it all run to?” asked Roderick, casually.
“I haven't the remotest idea,” replied Sylvester. “It never entered my head to inquire.”
Roderick took a few quick turns about the room, then he laughed in his buoyant way.
“Well, if Damon Lanyon is recalcitrant, Pythias Usher will soothe him down. So it will all come right. And you, camarado, shall dance at the wedding. I swear it. I must go and dress for dinner with some Philistines at Cricklewood. I shall be interested to see how God makes the creatures who live at Cricklewood. By the way, shall I give Ella your good wishes?”
“Most certainly,” said Sylvester.
He accompanied his guest to the front door; then returning to the consulting-room, he opened the window, with an exclamation of distaste. Roderick carried heavy scent about him, and Sylvester, like a wholesome Briton, detested scent. He also in his heart detested Roderick.