"A highbrow! Sometimes I think you've no soul, Pam. Margaret is not a highbrow, any more than you are. But she is the daughter of a Duke; and it has occurred to me that in pursuing the daughter of a Duke I may be laying myself open to misconceptions."
"Yes, I see. But I wish you'd come to the point and tell me who the other girl is."
They had been standing by the window. Norman turned away, and said in a different voice: "Let's sit down. I want to tell you something."
They sat on a sofa by the fireplace. Norman lit a pipe. "I say, Pam," he said, "did you ever think of Dad as a sort of millionaire?"
"What a funny question! What is a sort of millionaire? I suppose I've always known that he has plenty of money. What is the bearing of the question?"
"You know I've been having a week's sail on the Broads, with a couple of pals. We've had a topping time. I'll tell you about it later on. One of the fellows was Dick Baskerville, a son of Lord Ledbury, who's Minister for something or other—I've forgotten what—and the other was Eric Blundell, one of those blokes who seems to know everybody and everything that's going on. They were both at Eton with me, and both in the regiment. Dick's in it still, and Eric's at Cambridge. We'd always chaffed each other about our respective anginas, and...."
"What do you mean—anginas?"
"Heart troubles. Both of them had tumbled to Margaret, and brought her up against me. I didn't deny the soft impeachers; in fact I was rather pleased at it. When your time comes, you'll see how that works out. But by and by they began to talk about it as if it were something quite serious."
"Sweet youths!" interpolated Pam.
"Oh, there was nothing wrong with them. I mean that they began to talk about marriage, and the right sort of match, and all that sort of thing."