"You?"

"Yes."

Hawksley played with his fork. "If you had a daughter would you trust me

with her?"

"Yes. Any man who can weep unashamed over the portrait of his mother may

be trusted. Once you are out there in Montana you'll forget all about

your paternal forbears."

Handsome beggar, thought Cutty; but evidently born under the opal. An

inexplicable resentment against his guest stirred his heart. He resented

his youth, his ease of manner, his fluency in the common tongue. He was

theoretically a Britisher; he thought British; approached subjects from

a British point of view. A Britisher--except when he had that fiddle

tucked under his chin. Then Cutty admitted he did not know what he was.

Devil take him!

There must have been something electrical in Cutty's resentment, for

the object of it felt it subtly, and it fired his own. He resented the

freedom of action that had always been denied him, resented his host's

mental and physical superiority. Did Cutty care for the girl, or was he

playing the game as it had been suggested to him? Money and freedom. But

then, it was in no sense a barter; she would be giving nothing, and the

old beggar would be asking nothing. His suggestion! He laughed.

"What's the joke?" asked Cutty, looking up from his coffee, which he was

stirring with unnecessary vigour.

"It isn't a joke. I'm bally well twisted. I laugh now when I think of

something tragic. I am sorry about last night. I was mad, I suppose."

"Tell me about it."

Cutty listened intently and smiled occasionally. Mad as hatters, both of

them. He and Kitty couldn't have gone on a romp like this, but Kitty and

Hawksley could. Thereupon his resentment boiled up again.

"Have you any idea why she took such a risk? Why she came here, knowing

me to be absent?"

"She spoke of a problem. I fancy it related to your approaching

marriage. She told me."

Cutty laid down his spoon. "I'd like to dump Your Highness into the

middle of East River for putting that idea into my head. She has

consented to it; and now, damn it, I've got to back out of it!" Cutty

rose and flung down his napkin.

"Why?" asked the bewildered Hawksley.

"Because there is in me the making of a first-rate scoundrel, and I

never should have known it if you and your affairs hadn't turned up."

Cutty entered his study and slammed the door, leaving Hawksley prey to

so many conflicting emotions that his head began to bother him. Back

out of it! Why? Why should Kitty have a problem to solve over such a

marriage of convenience, and why should the old thoroughbred want to

back out?




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