"When will Mr. Cremer arrive?" he asked Lesley, as they walked together across a sloping lawn, towards the stables.
"Oh, Sidney's very much at home here," she answered lightly, "you may see him at any time. Meanwhile, you won't mind driving the car for me, will you?"
"I think you know whether I'll mind that or not," said Loveland, almost more to himself than to the girl. "If only there were no Sidney Cremer——"
"I have an idea you won't dislike Sidney when you meet him," Lesley said, kindly.
"A man's chauffeur has no right to an opinion about him—at least, that's what I used to think myself," said Val.
"And now—and now are your ideas changing? Do you begin to feel just a tiny bit, that 'rank's but the guinea stamp,' and 'a man's a man for a' that'? For if you do, after all it won't have done you any harm to come to America," said Lesley.
"It's riches here, not rank, which counts apparently," Loveland retorted. "And that's just as bad."
"Riches don't count with me," said Lesley.
"Cremer must be very rich," grumbled Loveland, apparently apropos of nothing.
"Sidney makes a good deal of money out of novels and plays—at least, it seems a good deal to me, but maybe it wouldn't to you. Perhaps Sidney's earnings amount to about twelve or fifteen thousand of your English pounds a year—and he's saved quite a lot, too, for he's been popular as a playwright and novelist in America and England for several years now."