He threw out short gruff phrases. "I'm not interested in
your past--I don't care about digging into a man--I never have and I never
will--except as it might affect my daughter. That's the main question, I
suppose. Can you make her happy?"
"I think so," said Sloane, decidedly. Roger gave him a glance of
displeasure.
"That's a large order, young man," he rejoined.
"Then let's take it in sections," the youngster replied. Confound his
boyish assurance! "To begin with," he was saying, "I rather think I have
money enough. We'd better go into that, hadn't we?"
"Yes," said Roger indifferently. "We might as well go into it." Of course
the chap had money enough. He was a money maker. You could hear it in his
voice; you could see it in his jaw, in his small aggressive blonde
moustache. Now he was telling briefly of his rich aunt in Bridgeport, of
the generous start she had given him, his work downtown, his income.
"Twenty-two thousand this year," he said. "We can live on that all right, I
guess."
"You won't starve," was the dry response. Roger walked for a moment in
silence, then turned abruptly on young Sloane.
"Look here, young man, I don't want to dig," he continued very huskily.
"But I know little or nothing of what may be behind you. I don't care to
ask you about it now--unless it can make trouble."
"It can't make trouble." At this answer, low but sharp, Roger wheeled and
shot a glance into those clear and twinkling eyes.
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