"There are other ways of punishing him—more fitting to the crime, perhaps," remarked Jim, thoughtfully.
"What ways?"
"Giving him the letters."
"Jim!"
"And then—and then—well, a lot depends upon whether he's a born egoist, or merely a made one. I haven't quite worked out the idea yet. It's simmering—it'll soon begin to boil."
Whether Jim Harborough's idea had already boiled or not, at all events that same afternoon a fat envelope went out by post, registered, and addressed to The Marquis of Loveland, Cragside Lodge, Dorloch, N. B. In it there were at least ten letters of introduction, all to names the bare mention of which had power to raise the circulation of Society papers in America, or create a flutter in Wall Street. Each envelope enclosed in the big one was left open, so that Loveland might acquaint himself with the terms in which his cousins described him to their millionaire friends.
Perhaps he was slightly aggrieved that they did not paint him in more glowing terms, or dwell upon the honour conferred on the recipients of the letters. But there was no real fault to find, and—as Jim would perhaps have said—it was "up" to Loveland to make his own impression. On the whole, Val was satisfied with what he had got, and condescendingly wrote two lines of thanks to Betty.