Lord Felixstowe picked up his hat.
“See you later, then,” he concluded. “Old friend of yours, Miss Bultiwell, eh?”
“An acquaintance of some years’ standing,” Jacob admitted.
“Give her the straight tip,” Lord Felixstowe advised earnestly. “Don’t know what she’s doing with that crew, anyhow. She seems a different sort of person altogether. Tell her to cut it out. By-by!”
Jacob found his luncheon companion cold but amiable. He waited until they were halfway through the meal, and then took his courage in both hands.
“Miss Bultiwell,” he began, “I don’t like your friends.”
“Really?” she said. “I thought you were a great success with them.”
“My popularity,” he assured her drily, “is waning. I have annoyed Mr. Mason by refusing to find the money for him to start a night club, Mr. Hartwell by not buying some oil wells in Trinidad, and, in a lesser degree, Lord Felixstowe by not jumping at the chance of engaging him as my social mentor at a somewhat exorbitant salary.”