Jacob had made his farewells; he had almost reached the door. Felixstowe, leaning towards his mother, whispered behind his hand, “Millionaire! Rolling in it!”
The Marchioness was a woman of rare presence of mind. She addressed the departing guest quite softly, with no signs of flurry, but with a new note of graciousness. Jacob paused upon the threshold.
“Mr. Pratt,” she invited, “won’t you come and dine with us one evening? I know how men hate afternoon calls. Next Thursday night, at eight o’clock?”
“Do come,” Lady Mary begged, still grasping her notes.
“Very glad to see you, Mr. Pratt,” the Marquis added, with a little bow which was a model of deportment.
Felixstowe walked down the wooden stairs with his departing guest, who had murmured his grateful acceptance.
“You’ve hit it up all right with the old folks at home,” he confided. “Between you and me, that forty-five quid is about the only ready there is in the house. Bet you they’re snaffling it at the present moment. What a life it must be to have plenty of the dibs, Jacob! So long, old bean. See you Thursday. Hullo, what’s that?”
The two men looked back up the wooden staircase. Lady Mary was slowly descending towards them.
“I am to be taken for a walk,” she announced sedately, “on the lawn, if possible. And if either of you feel inclined to save the life of a young girl, perhaps you will give her something cool to drink.”