"Pooh! the idea amuses me. I'll provide any materials you may need, too. Snelling shall have an order to that effect so that he can call on the Long Island plant for anything he wants."

"That will be splendid, Mr. Galbraith; but where do you come in?"

"I'll have my fun, never you fear," returned the capitalist. "In the first place I'd like nothing better than to do that little old fellow a good turn. There is something pathetic about him. Sometimes it is hard to believe that life gives everybody a square deal, isn't it?

That man, for instance. He has the brain and the creative impulse, but he has been cheated of his opportunity. I should enjoy giving him a boost. Occasionally I fling away a small sum on a whim that catches my fancy; now its German marks, now an abandoned farm. This time it shall be Mr. Willie Spence and his motor-boat idee."

He laughed.

"I appreciate it tremendously," Bob said.

"There, there, we won't speak of it any more," the elder man protested, cutting him short. "I will telegraph Snelling and you may arrange the rest. The old inventor isn't to suspect a thing--remember."

"No, sir."

"That is all, then."

With a finality Robert Morton dared not transgress, the older man lapsed into silence and Bob had no choice but to suppress his grat.i.tude and resign himself to listening to the rhythmic beat of the automobile's great engine.

CHAPTER XI

THE GALBRAITH HOUSEHOLD

The estate the Galbraiths had leased stood baldly upon a rise overlooking the sea in the midst of the fashionable colony adjacent to Wilton, and was one of those blots which the city luxury-lover affixes to a community whose keynote is simplicity. Its expanse of veranda, its fluttering green and white awnings, its giant tubs of blossoming hydrangeas, to say nothing of its Italian garden with rose-laden pergolas, were as out of place as if Saint Peter's itself had been dropped down into a tiny New England fishing hamlet.

The house, it is true, did not lack beauty, for it was well proportioned and gracefully planned, and there was no denying that one found, perhaps, more comfort on its screened and shaded piazzas than was to be enjoyed on Willie Spence's unprotected doorstep.

Nevertheless, there was too much of everything about it: too many rambler roses, too many rustic baskets and mighty palms; too many urns, and stone benches, and sundials and fountains. Still, as the car stopped at the door, the great wicker chairs with their scarlet cushions presented a gay picture and so, too, did Mrs. Galbraith and Cynthia who immediately rose from a breezy corner and came forward.

The older woman was tall and handsome and in her youth must have possessed great beauty; even now she carried with a spoiled air almost girlish the costly gowns and jewels that her husband, proud of her looks, lavished upon her. She had a languid grace very fascinating in its indifference and spoke with a pretty little accent that echoed of the South. For all her attractiveness, Cynthia could not compare in charm with her mother whose femininity lured all men toward her as does a magnet steel.

Bob leaped from the car almost before it had come to a stop and went to her side, bending low over her heavily ringed hand.

"We're so glad to see you, Bobbie!" she smiled. "The very nicest thing that could have happened was to find you here."

"It is indeed a delightful surprise for me," Robert Morton answered.

"How are you, Cynthia?"

Cynthia, who was standing in the background, frowned.

"You've been long enough getting here," declared she petulantly.

"Where on earth have you been? We decided you must have got stalled on the road."

"Oh, no," interrupted her father, coming up the steps. "We made the run over and back without a particle of trouble. What delayed us was that we stopped to visit with Bob's aunt and the old gentleman with whom he is staying. Such a quaint character, Maida! You really should see him. I had all I could do to tear myself away from the place."

His wife raised her delicately penciled brows.

"We do not often see you so enthusiastic, Richard."

"They are charming people, I a.s.sure you. I don't wonder Bob prefers staying over there to coming here," chuckled the financier.

"Oh, I say, Mr. Galbraith--" began Bob; but his host interrupted him.

"That is a rather rough accusation, isn't it?" declared he, "and it's not quite fair, either. To tell the truth, Bob's deep in some important work."

There was a light, scornful laugh from Cynthia.

"He is, my lady. You needn't be so incredulous," her brother put in.

"Bob is busy with a boat-building project. Dad's got interested in it, too."

Cynthia pursed her lips with a little grimace.

"Ask him if you don't believe it," persisted Roger.

"Yes," went on Mr. Galbraith, "that old chap over at Wilton has an idea that may make all our fortunes, Bob's included."

There was a general laugh.

"Well," pouted Cynthia, glancing down at the toe of her immaculate buckskin shoe, "I call it very tiresome for Bob to have to work all his vacation."

"I don't have to," Robert Morton objected. "I am simply doing it for fun. Can't you understand the sport of--"

"No, she can't," her brother a.s.serted. "Cynthia never sees any fun in working."

"Roger!" Mrs. Galbraith drawled gently.

"Well, I don't like to work," owned the girl with delicious audacity.

"I detest it. Why should I pretend to like it when I don't?"

"Cynthia is one of the lilies of the field; she's just made for ornament," called Roger over his shoulder as he pa.s.sed into the house.

"There is something in being ornamental, isn't there, daughter?" said Mr. Galbraith, dropping into a chair and lighting a fresh cigar.

She was decorative, there was no mistake about that. The skirt of heavy white satin clung to her slight figure in faultless lines, and her sweater of a rose shade was no more lovely in tint than was the faint flush in her cheeks. Every hair of the elaborate coiffure had been coaxed skilfully into place by a hand that understood the cunning, and wherever nature had been guilty of an oversight art had supplied the defect. Yes, Cynthia Galbraith was quite a perfect product, thought Bob, as he surveyed her there beneath the awning.

"I thought Madam Lee was here," the young man presently remarked, as he glanced about.

Mrs. Galbraith's face clouded.

"Mother is not well to-day," she answered. "Careful as we are of her she has in some way taken cold. She is not really ill, but we thought it wise for her to keep her room. She is heartbroken not to be downstairs and I promised that after she had had her luncheon and nap you would go up and see her."

"Surely!" Robert Morton cried emphatically.

"Mother is so devoted to you, Bobbie," went on Mrs. Galbraith.

"Sometimes I think she cares much more for you than she does for her own grandchildren."

"Nonsense! Of course she doesn't."