“Prothero,” he said, “you know what my father is.”

“I thought he ran a preparatory school.”

There was the profoundest resentment in Prothero’s voice.

“And, all the same, I’m going to be a rich man.”

“I don’t understand,” said Prothero, without any shadow of congratulation.

Benham told Prothero as much as his mother had conveyed to him of the resources of his wealth.  Her version had been adapted to his tender years and the delicacies of her position.  The departed Nolan had become an eccentric godfather.  Benham’s manner was apologetic, and he made it clear that only recently had these facts come to him.  He had never suspected that he had had this eccentric godfather.  It altered the outlook tremendously.  It was one of the reasons that made Benham glad to have Prothero there, one wanted a man of one’s own age, who understood things a little, to try over one’s new ideas.  Prothero listened with an unamiable expression.

“What would you do, Prothero, if you found yourself saddled with some thousands a year?”

“Godfathers don’t grow in Brixton,” said Prothero concisely.

“Well, what am I to do, Prothero?”

“Does all this belong to you?”

“No, this is my mother’s.”

“Godfather too?”

“I’ve not thought. . . .  I suppose so.  Or her own.”

Prothero meditated.

“This life,” he said at last, “this large expensiveness—­ . . .”

He left his criticism unfinished.

“I agree.  It suits my mother somehow.  I can’t understand her living in any other way.  But—­for me. . . .”

“What can one do with several thousands a year?”

Prothero’s interest in this question presently swamped his petty personal resentments.  “I suppose,” he said, “one might have rather a lark with money like that.  One would be free to go anywhere.  To set all sorts of things going. . . .  It’s clear you can’t sell all you have and give it to the poor.  That is pauperization nowadays.  You might run a tremendously revolutionary paper.  A real upsetting paper.  How many thousands is it?”

“I don’t know.  Some.”

Prothero’s interest was growing as he faced the possibilities.

“I’ve dreamt of a paper,” he said, “a paper that should tell the brute truth about things.”

“I don’t know that I’m particularly built to be a journalist,” Benham objected.

“You’re not,” said Billy. . . .  “You might go into Parliament as a perfectly independent member. . . .  Only you wouldn’t get in. . . .”

“I’m not a speaker,” said Benham.

“Of course,” said Billy, “if you don’t decide on a game, you’ll just go on like this.  You’ll fall into a groove, you’ll—­you’ll hunt.  You’ll go to Scotland for the grouse.”

For the moment Prothero had no further suggestions.

Benham waited for a second or so before he broached his own idea.