"Blow the Valentines!" said Tom, very ungratefully, inasmuch as he sat in their boat and had eaten their bread.
He bent over his sculls, and Adela looked at him with a doubtful little smile. She thought Tom Loring, on the whole, the best man she knew, the truest and loyalest; but, these qualities are not everything, and it seemed as if he meant to be secretary to Harry Dennison all his life. Of course he had no money, there was that excuse; but to some men want of money is a reason, not for doing nothing, but for attempting everything; it had struck Willie Ruston in that light. Therefore she was at times angry with Tom—and all the more angry the more she admired him.
"You do me the honour to be anxious on my account?" she asked very stiffly.
"He asked me how much money you had the other day."
"Oh, you're insufferable; you really are. Do you always tell women that men care only for their money?"
"It's not a bad thing to tell them when it's true."
"I call this the very vulgarest dispute I was ever entrapped into."
"It's not my fault. It's——Hullo!"
His attention was arrested by Lady Valentine's footman, who stood on the bank, calling "Mr. Loring, sir," and holding up a telegram.
"Thank goodness, we're interrupted," said Adela. "Row ashore, Mr. Loring."