I. A. R. Wylie

“ Mr. Ashley shifted angrily in his chair. “A young man—a puppy, and the son of a—a—confound it! Why do you ask? Do you think I'm in the mood to discuss my neighbors' history?”
“Anything to do with old Mortimer de Warren?” the agent persisted tranquilly.
“His son. My dear Samuels——”
“Old Mortimer is worth a million or two,” the other went on, as though there had been no interruption. “He has got his finger into every pie I know of, and he has nabbed most of the plums, as some of us know to our cost. He's a wire puller, Mr. Ashley. He might be useful.” ”

“ Who is taking you?”
“Peter de Warren,” she answered. “He is driving me over in his motor, and Smith is to take the horses.” Her brows betrayed a faint impatience. “I would rather have ridden,” she added, “but Peter is so persistent. He worries till he gets what he wants.”
She gave a short laugh, half amused, half annoyed, and Mr. Ashley rose, steadying himself with his hand on the table.
“Eh, yes, a tiresome young man, and his father—there, never mind. Take care of yourself; don't do anything headstrong.” ”

“ Samuels jerked his thumb in the direction of the garden, and then laid his hand significantly on the region of his heart.
“Anything thereabouts?” he asked.
Mr. Ashley rose. Some men are born theatrical, and he was of the class. In the instinctive, delighted recognition of an effective situation, he forgot his troubles, and even his own self-pity.
“Mr. Samuels,” he said, “you are going beyond your prerogative. Ruined I may be, but I am neither a scoundrel nor the wicked father of romance. ”