“Move where?” was the laconic inquiry.
“To Simla, to be sure! the club here is just a mere rowdy pot-house. I never saw such rotten polo! My best pony is lame—gone in the shoulder. I believe that little beggar Byng stuck me; and besides this, Miss Potter—the girl with the black eyes and twelve hundred a year—is going away.”
“To Simla?” expressively.
“Yes. She does not want to move, but the people she is with, the Athertons, are off, and of course she is bound to go with them. That girl likes me—she believes in me.”
“Do you think she believes that you are what they call you here, a millionaire?”
“What a grossly coarse way of putting it! Well, I should not be surprised if she did!”
“Then if that is the case, don’t you think the sooner you undeceive her the better!”
“Excellent high-minded youth! But why?”
“Because it strikes me that we have played this little game long enough.”
“And you languish for the good old board ship and Poonah days over again! Shall we publish who is really who, in the papers, and send a little ‘para’ to the Pioneer?” with angry sarcasm.