"As you say, I did only what a man must do were he not a scoundrel.
But, too, as you say, it means a great deal. It means that when you
will have paid me my wages I shall have not another cent in the world.
And being virtually penniless, still my chief purpose in coming to you
this evening has been to tell you that I love Argyl, and that I want
your consent to ask her to marry me."
For a moment the older man made no reply. For a little he drew
thoughtfully at his cigar, and as in its glow his grave face was
thrown into relief Conniston saw that there was a sad droop at the
corners of the firm mouth.
"You have told Argyl?" he finally said.
"Yes. I told her that day in the desert. I had meant to wait until the
work was done, until she could have seen that I was honestly trying to
live down my utter uselessness. But--I told her then."
"And she?"
"She said that I might speak to you."
"I am selfish, Conniston--selfish. Argyl has been daughter to me and
son, and the best friend I have ever had. I shall miss her. But if she
loves you--Well," with a gentle smile, "she is too true a woman to
hold back from your side, no matter what I might say. And since she
must leave me some day, I am very glad that you came into her life. I
congratulate you, my boy."
While the two men were talking and waiting for Argyl to come in, Tommy
Garton, his new legs discarded for the day, was lying on his cot in
the back room of the general office, blowing idle puffs of
cigarette-smoke at the lamp-chimney, watching the smoke as the hot
draft from the flame sent it ceilingward.
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