.
Waiter, bring me the same."

When we were alone, John Turner sat smoking and looking at me with
beady, reflective eyes.

"You know, Dick," he said at length, "I have got you down in my will."

"Thanks--but you will last my time."

"Then it is no good, you think?" he inquired, with a chuckle.

"Not much."

"You want it now?" he suggested.

"No."

"Your father's son," commented my father's friend. "Stubborn and rude.
A true Howard of Hopton. I have got you down in my will, however, and
I'm going to interfere in your affairs. That is why I sent for you."

I smoked and waited.

"I take it," he went on in his short and breathless way, "that things
are at a standstill somewhat in this position. If you marry Isabella
Gayerson, you will have with her money, which is a tidy fortune, four
thousand a year. If you don't have the young woman, you can live at
Hopton, but without a sou to your name. You want to marry
Mademoiselle, who thinks you are too old and too big a scoundrel.
That is Mademoiselle's business. Giraud junior is also in love with
Mademoiselle Lucille, who would doubtless marry him if he had the
wherewithal. In the mean time she is coy--awaiting the result of your
search. You are seeking Giraud's money, so that he may marry
Mademoiselle of the bright eyes--you understand that, I suppose?"

"Thoroughly."

"That is all right. It is best to have these affairs clearly stated.
Now, why the devil do you not ask Isabella to marry you--"

"To begin with, she would not have me," I interrupted.

"Nice girl, capable of a deep and passionate affection--I know these
quiet women--two thousand five hundred a year."

"She wouldn't have me."

"Then ask her, and when she has refused you, fight the validity of
your father's will."

"But she might not refuse me," said I. "She hates me, though! I know
that. There is no one on earth with such a keen scent for my faults."

"Ye-es," said Turner slowly. "Well?"

"She might think it her duty to accept me on account of the will."

"Have you ever known a woman weigh duty against the inclination of her
own heart?"

"I know little about women," replied I, "and doubt whether you know
more."

"That is as may be. And you wouldn't marry Isabella for two thousand a
year?"

"Not for twenty thousand," replied I, half in my wineglass.

"Virtuous young man! Why?"

I looked at Turner and laughed.

"A slip of a French girl," he muttered contemptuously. "No bigger
round