She glanced at the big steamer puffing towards them obtrusively and sending a trail of smoke across the green and violet of the hills.
"Oh, I'm told you are the most popular man in London; that you have the world at your feet, that you are only waiting to see which duchess you prefer to throw your handkerchief to—"
Stafford coloured.
"What rot!—I beg your pardon, Miss Falconer. Of course, I know you are only chaffing me."
"Isn't it true—about the duchess, I mean?" she asked, so coolly, so indifferently, that Stafford was compelled to take her seriously.
"Nary a word," he said, brightly; then, with a sudden gravity: "If you happen to hear such nonsense again, Miss Falconer, you can, if you care to, contradict it flatly. I am not in the least likely to marry a duchess; indeed, I wouldn't marry the highest and greatest of them, if she'd have me, which is highly improbable."
"Do you mean to say that you have no ambition, that you would marry for—love?" she asked.
Stafford stopped rowing for a moment and looked at her grimly.
"What on earth else should I marry for?" he asked. "Wouldn't you?"
Before she could answer, the steamer came abreast of them, and so close that the swell from its screw set the slight, narrow skiff dancing and plunging on the waves.