"Why, you want me to bring an action. I will do nothing of the kind.
Even if he were living, I would rather be dead. Besides, it was all my
fault. I ought to have known better."
"Better than what?" enquired the novelist, who now had got his bearings.
"Mr. Jones, I told you all about it."
"Forgive me, if I seem to contradict you. You did not tell all."
Cassy stiffened.
"How could you?" Jones continued. "Details are so tiresome. To-day when
I was talking to Dunwoodie, I advanced a few. Dunwoodie is a very
ordinary person. Details bore you, they bore me. He dotes on them. By
the way, you said something about changing your name. I wish you would.
Couldn't you take mine?"
"You are ridiculous."
"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."