“What Mr. Penzance says is that he’s like the men that built things in the beginning—­fought for them—­fought Romans and Saxons and Normans—­perhaps the whole lot at different times.  I used to like to get Mr. Penzance to tell stories about the Mount Dunstans.  They were splendid.  It must be pretty fine to look back about a thousand years and know your folks have been something.  All the same its pretty fierce to have to stand alone at the end of it, not able to help yourself, because some of your relations were crazy fools.  I don’t wonder he feels mad.”

“Does he?” Mr. Vanderpoel inquired.

“He’s straight,” said G. Selden sympathetically.  “He’s all right.  But only money can help him, and he’s got none, so he has to stand and stare at things falling to pieces.  And—­well, I tell you, Mr. Vanderpoel, he loves that place—­he’s crazy about it.  And he’s proud—­I don’t mean he’s got the swell-head, because he hasn’t—­but he’s just proud.  Now, for instance, he hasn’t any use for men like himself that marry just for money.  He’s seen a lot of it, and it’s made him sick.  He’s not that kind.”

He had been asked and had answered a good many questions before he went away, but each had dropped into the talk so incidentally that he had not recognised them as queries.  He did not know that Lord Mount Dunstan stood out a clearly defined figure in Mr. Vanderpoel’s mind, a figure to be reflected upon, and one not without its attraction.

“Miss Vanderpoel tells me,” Mr. Vanderpoel said, when the interview was drawing to a close, “that you are an agent for the Delkoff typewriter.”

G. Selden flushed slightly.

“Yes, sir,” he answered, “but I didn’t——­”

“I hear that three machines are in use on the Stornham estate, and that they have proved satisfactory.”

“It’s a good machine,” said G. Selden, his flush a little deeper.

Mr. Vanderpoel smiled.

“You are a business-like young man,” he said, “and I have no doubt you have a catalogue in your pocket.”

G. Selden was a business-like young man.  He gave Mr. Vanderpoel one serious look, and the catalogue was drawn forth.

“It wouldn’t be business, sir, for me to be caught out without it,” he said.  “I shouldn’t leave it behind if I went to a funeral.  A man’s got to run no risks.”

“I should like to look at it.”

The thing had happened.  It was not a dream.  Reuben S. Vanderpoel, clothed and in his right mind, had, without pressure being exerted upon him, expressed his desire to look at the catalogue—­to examine it—­to have it explained to him at length.

He listened attentively, while G. Selden did his best.  He asked a question now and then, or made a comment.  His manner was that of a thoroughly composed man of business, but he was remembering what Betty had told him of the “ten per,” and a number of other things.  He saw the flush come and go under the still boyish skin, he observed that G. Selden’s hand was not wholly steady, though he was making an effort not to seem excited.  But he was excited.  This actually meant—­this thing so unimportant to multi-millionaires—­that he was having his “chance,” and his young fortunes were, perhaps, in the balance.