“THAT'S not it, sir,” I explained. “It's a most generous offer, a most
flattering, complimentary offer. But you don't know me. I don t know
you. Choosing a son is a very----”
“I've had you looked up,” announced Mrs. Farrell. “The Pinkertons give
you a high rating. I hired 'em to trail you for six months.”
I wanted to ask WHICH six months, but decided to let sleeping dogs lie.
I shook my head. Politely but firmly I delivered my ultimatum.
“It is quite impossible!” I said firmly.
Mrs. Farrell continued the debate. She talked in a businesslike manner
and pronounced the arrangement one by which both sides would benefit.
There were thousands of other Farrells, she pointed out, any one of
whom they might have adopted. But they had selected me because in so
choosing, they thought they were taking the least risk. They had decided
she was pleased to say, that I would not disgrace them, and that as a
“literary author” I brought with me a certain social asset.
A clever, young businessman they did not want. Their business affairs
they were quit able to manage themselves. But they would like as an
adopted son one who had already added glory to the name of Farrell,
which glory he was willing to share.
“We wouldn't tie you down,” she urged “but we would expect you to live
at Harbor Castle a part of your time, and to call us Ma and Pa.
You would have your own rooms, and your own servant, and there is a
boat-house on the harbor front, where you could write your novels.”
At this, knowing none wanted my novels, I may have winced, for,
misreading my discontent, Farrell hastily interrupted.
“You won't have to work at all,” he protested heartily. “My son can
afford to live like a lord. You'll get all the spending money you want,
and if you're fond of foreign parts, you can take the yacht wherever you
please!”
“The farther the better,” exclaimed Mrs. Farrell with heat. “And when
you get it there, I hope you'll SINK it!”
“Maybe your friends would come and visit You,” suggested Farrell,
I thought, a trifle wistfully. “There's bathing, tennis, eight...
bedrooms, billiard-room, art gallery----”
“You told him that!” said Mrs. Farrell.
I was greatly at a loss. Their offer was preposterous, but to them, it
was apparently a perfectly possible arrangement. Nor were they acting
on impulse. Mrs. Farrell had admitted that for six months she had had me
“trailed.” How to say “No” and not give offense, I found difficult. They
were deeply in earnest and I could see that Farrell, at least, was by
instinct generous, human, and kind. It was, in fact, a most generous
offer. But how was I to tell them tactfully I was not for sale, that I
was not looking for “ready-to-wear” parents, and that if I were in the
market, they were not the parents I would choose. I had a picture of
life at Harbor Castle, dependent upon the charity of the Farrells. I
imagined what my friends would say to me, and worse, what they would say
behind my back. But I was not forced to a refusal.
Mr. Farrell rose.
“We don't want to hurry you,” he said. “We want you to think it over.
Maybe if we get acquainted----”
Mrs. Farrell smiled upon me ingratiatingly.
“Why don't we get acquainted now?” she demanded. “We're motoring down
to Cape May to stay three weeks. Why don't you come along--as our
guest--and see how you like us?”