“Mrs. Gray in?”

A grunt that signified yes.

“You’re as loquacious as ever, Hendrick.”

A mere nod.

Brewster let himself in with his own latch key, threw his hat on a chair and unceremoniously bolted into the library.  Margaret was seated near a window, a book in her lap.  The first evidence of unbiased friendship he had seen in days shone in her smile.  She took his hand and said simply, “We are glad to welcome the prodigal to his home again.”

“I remind myself more of the fatted calf.”

His first self-consciousness had gone.

“I thought of that, but I didn’t dare say it,” she laughed.  “One must be respectful to rich relatives.”

“Hang your rich relatives, Peggy; if I thought that this money would make any difference I would give it up this minute.”

“Nonsense, Monty,” she said.  “How could it make a difference?  But you must admit it is rather startling.  The friend of our youth leaves his humble dwelling Saturday night with his salary drawn for two weeks ahead.  He returns the following Thursday a dazzling millionaire.”

“I’m glad I’ve begun to dazzle, anyway.  I thought it might be hard to look the part.”

“Well, I can’t see that you are much changed.”  There was a suggestion of a quaver in her voice, and the shadows did not prevent him from seeing the quick mist that flitted across her deep eyes.

“After all, it’s easy work being a millionaire,” he explained, “when you’ve always had million-dollar inclinations.”

“And fifty-cent possibilities,” she added.

“Really, though, I’ll never get as much joy out of my abundant riches as I did out of financial embarrassments.”

“But think how fine it is, Monty, not ever to wonder where your winter’s overcoat is to come from and how long the coal will last, and all that.”

“Oh, I never wondered about my overcoats; the tailor did the wondering.  But I wish I could go on living here just as before.  I’d a heap rather live here than at that gloomy place on the avenue.”  “That sounded like the things you used to say when we played in the garret.  You’d a heap sooner do this than that—­don’t you remember?”

“That’s just why I’d rather live here, Peggy.  Last night I fell to thinking of that old garret, and hanged if something didn’t come up and stick in my throat so tight that I wanted to cry.  How long has it been since we played up there?  Yes, and how long has it been since I read ‘Oliver Optic’ to you, lying there in the garret window while you sat with your back against the wall, your blue eyes as big as dollars?”

“Oh, dear me, Monty, it was ages ago—­twelve or thirteen years at least,” she cried, a soft light in her eyes.

“I’m going up there this afternoon to see what the place is like,” he said eagerly.  “And, Peggy, you must come too.  Maybe I can find one of those Optic books, and we’ll be young again.”