“Oh, indeed,” casting an indifferent glance at Jervis. “Well, it’s not a bad thing to be cousin to a millionaire.”
“How do you know that he is a millionaire?” inquired the young man coolly.
“Oh, I put it to him, and he did not deny the soft impeachment. He has just paid a top price for a couple of weight-carrying polo ponies—I expect old Byng stuck it on.”
“The fact of buying polo ponies goes for nothing. If that were a test, you might call nearly every subaltern in India a millionaire,” rejoined Jervis with a smile.
Colonel Sladen merely stared at the speaker with an air of solemn contempt, threw the stump of his cheroot into a bush of heliotrope, and, turning once more to Honor, said—
“You see all our smartest young men down there, Miss Gordon—at your feet in one sense, and they will be there in another, before long. I can tell you all about them—it’s a good thing for a strange young lady to know how the land lies, and get the straight tip, and know what are trumps.”
“What do you mean?” asked Honor, frigidly.
“Oh, come now,” with an odious chuckle, “you know what I mean. I want to point you out some of the people, and, as I am the oldest resident, you could not be in better hands. There’s Captain Billings of the Bays, the fellow with the yellow cap, playing with Miss Clover, the prettiest girl here——”
He paused, to see if the shot told, or if the statement would be challenged; but no.
“That is Toby Joy, who acts and dances and ought to be in a music-hall, instead of in the service. There is Jenkins of the Crashers, the thin man with a red belt; very rich. His father made the money in pigs or pills—not what you’d call aristocratic, but he is well gilded. Then there is Alston of the Gray Rifles—good-looking chap, eldest son; and Howard of the Queen’s Palfreys—old family, heaps of tin; but he drinks. Now, which of these young men are you going to set your cap at?”