“Miss Chetwynde is very innocent—yes,” assented Lord Trafford.
“And she is worth—what is it?—a couple of millions?” murmured Lord Selvaine.
“So I understand,” said Trafford.
Lord Selvaine smoked leisurely, and eyed, through his half-closed eyes, his nephew.
“Have you been down to Belfayre lately, Traff?” he asked.
Trafford shook his head.
“Not lately.”
“Better come down with me to-morrow,” said Lord Selvaine. “There is a kind of conference on. Things are very bad, you know.”
“I know,” assented Trafford, with a sigh.
“Yes; and the worst of it is that the duke doesn’t realize how bad they are. He has been going into this scheme for making a fashionable watering-place of Belfayre Bay, and talks and acts as if we had half a million at our backs.”