“Of course I know how very few people, even among the `old citizens,’ would have any recollection whatever of me,” he went on; “but that doesn’t make any difference in my sentiment for the place and its people.  That street out yonder was named for my grandfather:  there’s a statue of my great uncle in the State House yard; all my own blood:  belonged here, and though I have been a wanderer and may not be remembered—­naturally am not remembered—­yet the name is honoured here, and I—­I——­” He faltered again, then concluded with quiet earnestness:  “I thought that if my good luck was destined to bring fortunes to others, it might as well be to my own kind—­that at least I’d offer them the chance before I offered it to any one else.”  He turned and looked Richard in the face.  “That’s why I’m here, Mr. Lindley.”

The other impulsively put out his hand.  “I understand,” he said heartily.

“Thank you.”  Corliss changed his tone for one less serious.  “You’ve listened very patiently and I hope you’ll be rewarded for it.  Certainly you will if you decide to come in with us.  May I leave the maps and descriptions with you?”

“Yes, indeed.  I’ll look them over carefully and have another talk with you about it.”

“Thank heaven, that’s over!” exclaimed the lounger in the hammock, who had not once removed his fascinated stare from the expressive face of Valentine Corliss.  “If you have now concluded with dull care, allow me to put a vital question:  Mr. Corliss, do you sing?”

The gentleman addressed favoured him with a quizzical glance from between half-closed lids, and probably checking an impulse to remark that he happened to know that his questioner sometimes sang, replied merely, “No.”

“It is a pity.”

“Why?”

“Nothing,” returned the other, inconsequently.  “It just struck me that you ought to sing the Toreador song.”

Richard Lindley, placing the notes and maps in his pocket, dropped them, and, stooping, began to gather the scattered papers with a very red face.  Corliss, however, laughed good-naturedly.

“That’s most flattering,” he said; “though there are other things in `Carmen’ I prefer—­probably because one doesn’t hear them so eternally.”

Vilas pulled himself up to a sitting position and began to swing again.  “Observe our host, Mr. Corliss,” he commanded gayly.  “He is a kind old Dobbin, much beloved, but cares damn little to hear you or me speak of music.  He’d even rather discuss your oil business than listen to us talk of women, whereas nothing except women ever really interests you, my dear sir.  He’s not our kind of man,” he concluded, mournfully; “not at all our kind of man!”

“I hope,” Corliss suggested, “he’s going to be my kind of man in the development of these oil-fields.”