"See here, Ulstervelt," he said with sudden coldness, "you're asking my
help. That's no way to get it."
"I beg pardon! I don't mean to be rude," apologised Freddie. "But, I
say, old man, I'll make it worth your while. My father's got stacks of
coin, and he's a power in New York. Odell-Carney's right. American
architects can't design good hencoops. What we want in New York is a
rattling good, up-to-date Englishman or two to show 'em a few things.
They're a lot of muckers over there, take it from me. By Jove, Roxbury,
you don't know how I'd appreciate your friendship in this matter. It
will simplify things immensely. You'll speak a good word for me when the
time comes, now, won't you?"
"You want me to do you a good turn," said Brock slowly. He found himself
grinning with a malicious joy. "All right, I'll see to it that Miss
Rodney doesn't marry you, my boy. I'll attend to her."
"Just a minute," interrupted Freddie quickly. "Don't be too hasty about
that. I want to be sure of Constance first."
"I see. I was just about to add that I'll give Constance a strong hint
that one of the most gallant young sparks in New York is likely to
propose to her before the end of the week. That will--"
"Heavens!" exclaimed Freddie, in disgust. "You needn't do that. I've
already proposed to her five or six times."
"And she--she is undecided?" cried Brock, his eyes darkening.
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