“How much would you take-eh, David? Come now-say-how much?”

David laughed again. His grey eyes twinkled. “Nary penny, sir,” he said, swinging his arm over the great carved post beside him. There were cherubs' heads upon it, a fact that had always amused its owner considerably.

“Nonsense,” said old Mr. Mottisfont, and for the first time his thin voice was tinged with earnestness. “Nonsense, David. Why! I 've left you five thousand pounds.”

David started. His eyes changed. They were very deep-set eyes. It was only when he laughed that they appeared grey. When he was serious they were so dark as to look black. Apparently he was moved and concerned. His voice took a boyish tone. “Oh, I say, sir-but you must n't-I can't take it, you know.”

“And why not, pray?” This was Mr. Mottisfont at his most sarcastic.

David got the better of his momentary embarrassment.

“I shan't forget that you 've thought of it, sir,” he said. “But I can't benefit under a patient's will. I have n't got many principles, but that 's one of them. My father drummed it into me from the time I was about seven.”

Old Mr. Edward Mottisfont lifted the thin eyebrows that had contrived to remain coal-black, although his hair was white. They gave him a Mephistophelean appearance of which he was rather proud.

“Very fine and highfalutin,” he observed. “You 're an exceedingly upright young man, David.”

David roared.

After a moment the old gentleman's lips gave way at the corners, and he laughed too.

“Oh, Lord, David, who 'd ha' thought it of you!” he said. “You won't take a thousand?”

David shook his head.

“Not five hundred?”

David grinned.

“Not five pence,” he said.

Old Mr. Mottisfont glared at him for a moment. “Prig,” he observed with great conciseness. Then he pursed up his lips, felt under his pillow, and pulled out a long folded paper.

“All the more for Edward,” he said maliciously.