"I'm glad, dear," Marjorie whispered. "Good-night."
"Good-night," he replied as he shut the door quietly and went to his own room.
Perhaps it was true. Marjorie was only the daughter and he the son of a farmer. That was why he had made such a mess of things in London. But his eyes had been opened just in time. Love had opened them.
A farmer's son. But his father's ambition should be realised. He would learn to be a man and a gentleman.
CHAPTER VII.
THE VISITORS.
It was dark before the West of England express pulled into Paddington Station. Rupert alighted, carrying a suit-case in his hand. He avoided the temptation of taking a taxi-cab, but walked to the underground railway and took a train to Westminster. He was turning over a new leaf, and, though for the moment he had plenty of money, he had made up his mind henceforth not to spend a penny more than was necessary.
He had not warned his landlady that he was coming, so he found that she was out and that nothing was ready for him. His rooms looked dusty and uncared-for, the blinds were drawn, the atmosphere was cold and cheerless.
The servant suggested lighting the fire, but Rupert shook his head. He was going to do without luxuries of any sort. The first thing he did was to write a letter to Sir Reginald at the Imperial Hotel, telling him of his arrival and saying he was at his service during the whole of the next day. Then, after unpacking his suit-case and changing his clothes, he went out and had dinner at a humble restaurant. He would have telephoned to Ruby, but there was not much time, and, again, it would have meant added expense.
It was curious and irritating how important money had suddenly become. It seemed to check him at every turn—though there was gold in his purse and a balance at his bank. A week or two ago when he had been really broke, it scarcely troubled him. Not as it troubled him now.