He spoke a phrase or a sentence at a time and looked with his hard old eyes out through the broad windows, down the sweep of formal garden toward the river. His gaze did not go as far as the water, though; it was arrested half way, not on the Grecian terrace of marble, but on the trees that stood above it, bending their tops lightly in the breeze. They were white pines, planted there years ago despite the protests of the landscape architect who planned that garden; that group of trees was the only item that interested the man who had paid him his fee. It had been Luke's only demand: that White Pine—capitalized—be placed where he could see it from every south window in the mansion.
From the expression on the old man's face or from the tone of his voice, the occasion might have been of little importance. A look at his secretary, however, would have indicated that this moment was of great consequence—to some one; his hand, holding the pencil, trembled slightly in the waits, and the veins on his forehead, close up under the sleek hair, stood out in knots.
Luke went on:
"To my son, John Taylor—the sum of fifty dollars—weekly—so long as he may—"
A flush swept up over Rowe's forehead and a sharp gleam of triumph showed in his lowered eyes.
"And for the administrator—" Luke paused, working his mouth vigorously, and cast a glance at the head of the younger man, bowed over his book; his glance was crafty, and yet in it was something of good humor, something of favor, perhaps something of admiration—possibly, too, something that almost reached affection. He did not know that Rowe's heart stopped, that a chill
