"If the tales about old King Midas have a thruppence worth of truth in them, it might be his father's meanness that's ailing him."
Marjorie Schuyler shook her head. "No; Billy's almost a prodigal. His father says he hasn't the slightest idea of the value of money; it's just so much beans or shells or knives or trading pelf with him; something to exchange for what he calls the real things of life. Why, when he was a boy--in fact, until he was almost grown--his father couldn't trust Billy with a cent."
"His father, of course. That's why he has never taken Billy into business with him. He is making Billy win his spurs--on his own merits; and he's not going to let him into the firm until he's worth at least five thousand a year to some other firm. Oh, Mr. Burgeman has excellent ideas about bringing up a son! Billy ought to amount to a great deal."
"Meaning money or character?" inquired Patsy.
Marjorie Schuyler looked at her sharply. "Are you laughing?"
"Faith, I'm closer to weeping; 'twould be a lonesome, hard rearing that would come to a son of King Midas, I'm thinking. I'd far rather be the son of his gooseherd, if I had the choosing."
She leaned forward impulsively and gathered up the hands of the girl opposite in the warm, friendly compass of those vagabond gloves. "Do ye really love him, _cailin a'sthore_?" And this time it was her look that was sharp.
"Why, of course I love him! What a foolish question! Why should I be marrying him if I didn't love him? Why do you ask?"
"Because--the son of King Midas with no mother, with no one at all but the king, growing up all alone in a gloomy old castle, with no one trusting him, would need a great deal of love--a great, great deal--"
"That's all right, Ellen. I'll find her for myself." It was a man's voice, pitched overhigh; it came from somewhere beyond and below the inclosing curtains and cut off the last of Patsy's speech.
"That's funny," said Marjorie Schuyler, rising. "There's Billy now. I'll bring him in and let you see for yourself that he's not at all an object of sympathy--or pity."
She disappeared into the library, leaving Patsy speculating recklessly. They must have met just the other side of the closed hangings, for to Patsy their voices sounded very near and close together.