I was not so old that an old man might not treat me to a lunch. Yet at the same time I was not altogether pleased by this abrupt invitation. “I had rather—” I began. “But _I_ had rather,” he said, catching me up, “and a certain civility is surely due to my grey hairs.” And so I consented, and went with him. He took me to Blavitski’s; I had to walk slowly to accommodate myself to his paces; and over such a lunch as I had never tasted before, he fended off my leading questions, and I took a better note of his appearance. His clean-shaven face was lean and wrinkled, his shrivelled lips fell over a set of false teeth, and his white hair was thin and rather long; he seemed small to me,—though, indeed, most people seemed small to me,—and his shoulders were rounded and bent. And watching him, I could not help but observe that he too was taking note of me, running his eyes, with a curious touch of greed in them, over me, from my broad shoulders to my sun-tanned hands, and up to my freckled face again. “And now,” said he, as we lit our cigarettes, “I must tell you of the business in hand. “I must tell you, then, that I am an old man, a very old man.” He paused momentarily. “And it happens that I have money that I must presently be leaving, and never a child have I to leave it to.” I thought of the confidence trick, and resolved I would be on the alert for the vestiges of my five hundred pounds. He proceeded to enlarge on his loneliness, and the trouble he had to find a proper disposition of his money. “I have weighed this plan and that plan, charities, institutions, and scholarships, and libraries, and I have come to this conclusion at last,”—he fixed his eyes on my face,—“that I will find some young fellow, ambitious, pure-minded, and poor, healthy in body and healthy in mind, and, in short, make him my heir, give him all that I have.” He repeated, “Give him all that I have. So that he will suddenly be lifted out of all the trouble and struggle in which his sympathies have been educated, to freedom and influence.” I tried to seem disinterested. With a transparent hypocrisy, I said, “And you want my help, my professional services, maybe, to find that person.” He smiled, and looked at me over his cigarette, and I laughed at his quiet exposure of my modest pretence. “What a career such a man might have!” he said. “It fills me with envy to think how I have accumulated that another man may spend— “But there are conditions, of course, burdens to be imposed. He must, for instance, take my name. You cannot expect everything without some return. And I must go into all the circumstances of his life before I can accept him. He _must_ be sound. I must know his heredity, how his parents and grandparents died, have the strictest inquiries made into his private morals—” This modified my secret congratulations a little. “And do I understand,” said I, “that I—?” “Yes,” he said, almost fiercely. “You. _You._”