“But, you see, I don’t want to be treated with respect, and moreover—”
“And moreover luncheon is served. Will you come?”
She led the way. In the adjoining room, stood Archibald, at whom she motioned.
“A chair for Mr. Revell. Claret for Mr. Revell. The best there is for Mr. Revell, and all there is of it.”
“Yes, mem. Yes, mem,” Archibald got in, pottering about, pottering away.
“And moreover,” the young man resumed, when the old man had gone, “I am not the head of the house. I’m not even the foot of it. I’m not in it at all. But if, technically and for the moment, I seem to have a shadow of a claim—”
“Let me give you some of this,” Camille interrupted.
“Thank you. If I have anything of the kind,” Revell continued, “that’s just the reason why I am here. I—”
“And let me give you some of this, also,” Camille again interrupted.
“Thank you. If I have any sort of a claim, I’m here to resign it.”
“Eh?” Camille’s brilliant eyes were on him.
“Only, in coming, I did not expect—”
“That I would know about Mike’s will already.”
“Precisely.”
Camille nodded.
“This morning Mike’s cousin, Mr. Glendenning, told me.”
“Ah!” Revell, who had been looking at Camille, looked down at his plate, on which was sweetbread and sorrel. At once he looked up. “I take it that he objects. That is only natural. If Mike had left no will, the money would have gone to him. Rather than that, Mike preferred to leave it to me and, rather than accept it, I resign it to you.”
If anyone can appear both pleased and indignant, that is the way Camille looked.
“Why, I never heard of such a thing! I couldn’t let you!”
Revell smiled at her.
“I knew that would be the first thing you would say, but—”
“I shall say it first, last, and all the time. If you don’t like claret, there is some Chablis. Now, I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
“To return, then, to our Chablis Moutonne,” Revell, intent on holding his own, resumed. “Apart from Mike’s will, I have no claim or title to the property, which is triply yours. It is yours because it originally belonged to your father; it is yours because Mr. Vulper intended to leave it to you; it is yours because such was Mike’s wish.”
“But—”
“Yes, I appreciate. You will ask why, in that case, is not the will in your favor? I don’t know that I can properly explain it.”
“I should think not.”
“I mean that I can’t explain it without the risk of offending you.”
“Oh, I am not the kaiser.”
“Well, then, if I did not offend you, I might offend others.”
“And I am not a repeater, either.”
“Here it is, then. Mike felt that if he left the money to you, Glendenning might contest it.”
“But can’t he anyway?”
“Certainly he can. Moreover, he probably will. But, apart from that, Mike felt that even if his cousin did not contest a will made in your favor, he would so badger you about it that you might end by giving the money to him.”
“How well Mike knew me!”
“Yes, and probably much better than he knew this cousin of his, in whom, no doubt, he was greatly mistaken.”
“Not a bit of it,” thought Camille.
But she said:
“You are not eating anything.”
Revell took a mouthful of sorrel and added:
“You can see, then, how it is. Pending the settlement of the estate, the court practically holds it in trust for you. But once the funds are turned over to me, I shall pay them in for you at your bankers.”
Camille straightened.
“I’ll tell them not to take it.”
“The bankers who won’t take money do not exist.”
Camille frowned.
“I’ll refuse to touch it.”
“Then it will accumulate interest for you until you change your mind.”
“But you’re bullying me! Suppose I never change my mind?”
“Then you’re not a woman. But assuming that you are as consistent as all that, the property will go to your heirs.”
Camille bridled.
“I haven’t any—I never shall have any.”
“Then it will go to the State.”
Camille nodded.
“There, you see! You had far better keep it yourself.”
At that Revell laughed, and the laugh and the look that accompanied it annoyed the girl, who exclaimed:
“Are you very rich?”
Then he, too, nodded.
“Enormously.”
“What?” she exclaimed again.
“I am one of the richest men in the world,” Revell calmly replied and as calmly enumerated the rent rolls of his vast estate. “I have health, strength, youth, and a total absence of needs.”
“And extraordinary good looks,” thought Camille.
But she said:
“Mr. Rockefeller might envy you.”
Revell bowed.
“Whereas I am immodest enough not to envy anyone.”
“He’s a dear,” thought Camille.
But she said:
“I don’t wonder you want to throw money out of the window. It must be great fun. But it’s a game that two can play at. If you pay money in at my bank, I will pay it back at yours.”
“You’ll have a hard time finding it, Miss Marcy.”
“Why? Where is it?”
“Everywhere and nowhere.”
“That sounds spacious. What is its name?”
“The Bank of Hope.”
“Now isn’t he a duck?” thought Camille.
But she said:
“I see. You have ambitions.”
“Only one, but that is immense.”
Camille stood up.
“Is it a secret?”
Revell also stood up.
“Can you keep one?”
“Yes, yes.”
“So can I.”
“Why, isn’t he mean?” thought Camille.
But she said:
“You haven’t eaten a thing.”
As she spoke, she passed into the drawing room. Revell followed and took her hand.
“I’ve never had a better luncheon.” Releasing her hand, he asked: “May I come again?”
Promptly Camille dropped a curtsy.
“Señor Don Hidalgo, this house is yours.”
When, from the hall without, she had heard the door close, she went to the window, saw him as he reached the street, watched him as he moved away.
When he had rounded the corner, she sat at the piano, attacked a score of Borodine, abandoned him for Granados, and, in allusion no doubt to the latter, stayed her hands and, said aloud:
“I never
