was quite clear on the matter of entail.  He wondered at first—­not unnaturally—­how a girl had learned certain things she had an obviously clear knowledge of.  As they continued to converse he learned.  Reuben S. Vanderpoel was without doubt a man remarkable not only in the matter of being the owner of vast wealth.  The rising flood of his millions had borne him upon its strange surface a thinking, not an unthinking being—­in fact, a strong and fine intelligence.  His thousands of miles of yearly journeying in his sumptuous private car had been the means of his accumulating not merely added gains, but ideas, points of view, emotions, a human outlook worth counting as an asset.  His daughter, when she had travelled with him, had seen and talked with him of all he himself had seen.  When she had not been his companion she had heard from him afterwards all best worth hearing.  She had become—­without any special process—­familiar with the technicalities of huge business schemes, with law and commerce and political situations.  Even her childish interest in the world of enterprise and labour had been passionate.  So she had acquired—­inevitably, while almost unconsciously—­a remarkable education.

“If he had not been himself he might easily have grown tired of a little girl constantly wanting to hear things—­constantly asking questions,” she said.  “But he did not get tired.  We invented a special knock on the door of his private room.  It said, ‘May I come in, father?’ If he was busy he answered with one knock on his desk, and I went away.  If he had time to talk he called out, ‘Come, Betty,’ and I went to him.  I used to sit upon the floor and lean against his knee.  He had a beautiful way of stroking my hair or my hand as he talked.  He trusted me.  He told me of great things even before he had talked of them to men.  He knew I would never speak of what was said between us in his room.  That was part of his trust.  He said once that it was a part of the evolution of race, that men had begun to expect of women what in past ages they really only expected of each other.”

Mount Dunstan hesitated before speaking.

“You mean—­absolute faith—­apart from affection?”

“Yes.  The power to be quite silent, even when one is tempted to speak—­if to speak might betray what it is wiser to keep to one’s self because it is another man’s affair.  The kind of thing which is good faith among business men.  It applies to small things as much as to large, and to other things than business.”

Mount Dunstan, recalling his own childhood and his own father, felt again the pressure of the remote mental suggestion that she had had too much, a childhood and girlhood like this, the affection and companionship of a man of large and ordered intelligence, of clear and judicial outlook upon an immense area of life and experience.  There was no cause for wonder that her young womanhood was all it presented to himself, as well as to others.  Recognising the shadow of resentment in his thought, he swept it away, an inward sense making it clear to him that if their positions had been reversed, she would have been more generous than himself.