The young man looked into her face very carefully. He was never quite sure of this particular girl. She required a lot of looking at, and even then he was never quite certain that she had not said something that would make him look like a fool if any one clever enough to understand her was at hand. Luckily for him there were, he knew, not many such people likely to be about.
He looked at her very carefully and then turned to Amber saying:
"I came across a chippie of a cornstalk yesterday who says his dad used to know Sir Creighton before he went to Australia. May I bring him with me one day?"
"Of course you may," cried Amber, her face brightening. Josephine knew that her face brightened at the prospect of acquiring some fresh materials for her laboratory. "What is his name?"
"His name is Winwood--Pierce Winwood, if it so please you."
"I'll ask the pater, and keep him up to the date," said Amber. "I suppose his father's name was Winwood too."
"Why shouldn't it be? Oh, there's nothing the matter with him. My dad used to know his dad out there. They were in the same colony and pretty nearly cleaned it out between them. But Winwood died worth a good bit more than my poor old dad. Oh, he's all right."
"I'm sure you have said enough to convince any one that the son is all right," said Josephine.
"Three-quarters of a million at least," remarked Guy Overton with the wink of sagacity.
"What, so right as all that?" exclaimed Josephine with the uplifted eyebrows of incredulity.
"Every penny," said the youth with the emphasis of pride.
"Oh, money is nothing!" said Amber with the head shake of indifference.
"Nothing in the world," acquiesced Guy, with a heartiness that carried with it absolute conviction of insincerity to the critical ears.
"Have you made any progress, Guy?" enquired Amber.
"Among this racket?" he asked. "Not much. I think if I've made any progress it's backwards. Two months ago I could read a novel--if it was the right sort--without trouble. But since I have been shown the parts of the machine that turns them out, blest if I can get beyond the first page."
"That's a good sign; it shows that you are becoming critical," cried Amber.
"Does it? Well... I don't know. If attending a Technical School of Novel-writing makes a chippie incapable of reading a book, I don't think the show can be called a success. Anyway I don't believe that prose fiction--that's how it's called--is the department for me. I believe that the poetry shop is the one I'm meant to shine in. You see, there's only one sort of poetry nowadays, and it's easily taught; whereas there are a dozen forms of prose fiction--I never guessed that the business was so complicated before I came here. Oh, yes, I'll join the poetry shop next week."