you could give up your university work and devote all your time to writing and research. That is what Tom would have wanted.”
St. Peter rose quickly, with the light, supple spring he had when he was very nervous, crossed to the window, wide on its hook, and half closed it. “My dear daughter,” he said decisively, when he had turned round to her, “I couldn’t possibly take any of Outland’s money.”
“But why not? You were the best friend he had in the world, he owed more to you than to anyone else, and he hated having you hampered by teaching. He admired your mind, and nothing would have pleased him more than helping you to do the work you do better than anyone else. If he were alive, that would be one of the first things he would use this money for.”
“But he is not alive, and there was no word about me in his will, and so there is nothing to build your pretty theory upon. It’s wonderfully nice of you and Louie, and I’m very pleased, you know.”
“But Tom was so impractical, Father. He never thought it would mean more than a liberal dress allowance for me, if he thought at all. I don’t know—he never spoke to me about it.”
St. Peter smiled quizzically. “I’m not so sure about his impracticalness. When he was working on that gas, he once remarked to me that there might be a fortune in it. To be sure, he didn’t wait to find out whether there was a fortune, but that had to do with quite another side of him. Yes, I think he knew his idea would make money and he wanted you to have it, with him or without him.”
The young woman’s face grew troubled. “Even if I married?”
“He wanted you to have whatever would make you happy.”
She sighed luxuriously. “Louie has done that. The only thing that troubles me is, I feel you ought to have some of this money, that he