“Seven sons,” he counted; “you make me tired! Why on earth don’t you come to me? I take it damned ill, Braith! How many times must I go over the same thing and explain to you that because I have money it is my duty to share it, and your duty and the duty of every American to share it with me? You can’t get a cent, the city’s blockaded, and the American Minister has his hands full with all the German riffraff and deuce knows what! Why don’t you act sensibly?”

“I⁠—I will, Trent, but it’s an obligation that perhaps I can never even in part repay, I’m poor and⁠—”

“Of course you’ll pay me! If I were a usurer I would take your talent for security. When you are rich and famous⁠—”

“Don’t, Trent⁠—”

“All right, only no more monkey business.”

He slipped a dozen gold pieces into the purse, and tucking it again under the mattress smiled at Braith.