“Then you don't look it,” he exclaimed.
“I may not, sir,” the young man continued, with a desperate courage, “but I am. After all happiness is spelt with different letters for all of us. You have denied yourself—worked hard, carried many burdens and run great risks to become a millionaire. I too have denied myself, have worked and struggled to make a home for the girl I cared for. You have succeeded and you are happy. I can hold Edith's—I beg your pardon, my wife's hand in mine and I am happy. I have no ambition to be a millionaire. I was very ambitious to win my wife.”
Scarlett Trent looked at him for a moment open mouthed and open-eyed. Then he laughed outright and a chill load fell from the heart of the man who for a moment had forgotten himself. The laugh was scornful perhaps, but it was not angry.
“Well, you've shut me up,” he declared. “You seem a poor sort of a creature to me, but if you're content, it's no business of mine. Here buy yourself an overcoat, and drink a glass of wine. I'm off!”
He rose from his seat and threw a bank-note over the table. The clerk opened it and handed it back with a little start.
“I am much obliged to you, sir,” he said humbly, “but you have made a mistake. This note is for fifty pounds.”
Trent glanced at it and held out his hand. Then he paused.
“Never mind,” he said, with a short laugh, “I meant to give you a fiver, but it don't make much odds. Only see that you buy some new clothes.”
The clerk half closed his eyes and steadied himself by grasping the back of a chair. There was a lump in his throat in earnest now.
“You—you mean it, sir?” he gasped. “I—I'm afraid I can't thank you!”
“Don't try, unless you want me to take it back,” Trent said, strolling to the sideboard. “Lord, how those City chaps can guzzle! Not a drop of champagne left. Two unopened bottles though! Here, stick 'em in your bag and take 'em to the missis, young man. I paid for the lot, so there's no use leaving any. Now clear out as quick as you can. I'm off!”
“You will allow me, sir—”
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