olinist of his
music, or a mother of her adored and only baby boy. I saw the young
American's face light up until it was even as something inspired.

This machine of his, for dropping bombs from the clouds upon the heads
of some enemy that existed if only in his imagination was "his subject."
This was his all. This he lived for. Yes, that was plain to both of us.
I saw Miss Million give an understanding nod of her little dark head as
she said: "Yes, you haven't half set your mind on this thing, have you?"

"I guess you've hit it," said the American. Then Miss Million asked:
"And where does the money part of it come in?"

Then he explained to us that, having invented the thing (it was all a
pure joy apparently), now began the hard work. He had to sell the
machine! He had to get it "taken up," to have it experimented with. All
this would run him into more money than he had got.

He concluded simply: "That's where the Million dollars would come in so
useful! And, Cousin Nellie, I am simply bound to try and get them!"

I watched my mistress's face as he made this announcement. Miss Million,
I saw, was so interested that for the moment she had forgotten her own
obsession, her infatuation for the Honourable Jim Burke. As well as the
interest, though, there was "fight" in the grey eyes of the soldier's
orphan who used to wear a blue-print uniform frock and a black straw hat
with a scarlet ribbon about it.

She said: "I see what you mean. Me give you my money to play with! And
what if I don't hold with investing any of uncle's money in this
harum-scarum idea of yours? I am none so sure that I do hold----"

"Maybe I might have to do a little of the holding myself, Cousin
Nellie," broke in the quiet, firm voice of her American cousin. "See
here! What if I were to put up a tussle to get all that money away from
you, whether you wanted to give it up to me to play with it or not?"

And then he began quickly to explain to her what he had explained to me
coming down in the car. He went over the possibilities of his contesting
Mr. Samuel Million's will.

I don't think I shall ever forget that funny little scene in the
bungalow-furnished room with all those theatrical photographs papering
the walls, and with the windows opening on to the Sussex garden where
the bees boomed in the roses, and the lazy sound mingled with the
chirping of the starlings, and with the shriller chatter of two of the
"Refuge" girls lying in deck-chairs