"As you like. Any one else would call me mercenary." He's crazy, Cassy uncomfortably reflected. What shall I do? Modestly the novelist motioned. "Ten Eyck Jones now! It doesn't rhyme with Victor Hugo or even with Andrew Carnegie, but it has a lilt. It might be worse." "What are you talking about?" Cassy, with increasing discomfort, put in. "There is a little thing that turns men into flint and women into putty. That's what I am talking about. I am talking money." "Thank you. The subject does not interest me." "Ah, but you are evolved! Would that the butcher were! We all have to consider his incapacities and money helps us. I have an idea that your dear departed may have left you a trifle." "Really, Mr. Jones, you are talking nonsense." "It is a specialty of mine." "Besides, it is impossible." "Impossible is a word that intelligent young women never employ." "Very good. Admitting the possibility, I won't take it." "It might be paid into your bank." "I haven't any bank." "One could be found for you." "I would tell them not to accept it." "The bank that won't accept money does not exist." Cassy flushed. "I rather liked you. Couldn't you be less hateful?" "You are trying to pick a quarrel with me." "Nothing of the kind." "Then will you let me take you to Dunwoodie?" "Certainly not." "Then will you go alone?" "But why? Why should I? What does this man with an absurd name want of me?" Jones pulled at a cuff. "Well, look at it from this angle. Before you discovered that your marriage was a sham, you were prepared to assume a few obligations and some of them may still subsist. The man with the absurd name can tell you what they are. Surely you are not a slacker. This is war-time." With that abandonment which is so gracious in a woman, Cassy half raised a hand. "My front line is wavering." Jones reached for his hat. "Over the top then!" Under the table they crawled. XXXIV "Your very obedient servant, madam." With that and a fine bow, Dunwoodie greeted Cassy when Jones had succeeded in getting her into the inner and airy office. The old ruffian drew a chair. "Do me the honour." Cassy sat down. What a funny old man, she thought. Jones addressing the door, remarked dreamily: "Pendente lite, I will renew my acquaintance with Swinburne's 'Espousals.'" Dunwoodie glared. "You will find it in the library." Then he sat down, folded his hands on his waistcoat and smiled at Cassy. "Nice day." "Very." "Down here often?" Cassy shook her docked hair. "No, and I don't at all know why I am here now. I do know though, and I may as well tell you at once, I have no intention of making a fuss." Dunwoodie's smile, a smile quasi-ogrish, semi-paternal, expanded. "If our Potsdam friend only resembled you!" For a young woman so recently and doubly bereaved, Cassy's blue smock and yellow skirt seemed to him properly subdued. Moreover, from a word that Jones had dropped, he realised that wealth had not presided at their selection.