He did his best not to grin. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. A time may come when this little chap will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in Owen Wood. She was to be handed over with her dowry of three thousand Florins, plus her pet bird, six chickens, her mother’s fine linens, a small book of poetry. A bumper round, gentlemen. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. Let’s face it, she hates Missy’s guts.
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