“You certainly aren’t in the least like a millionaire,” she declared, smiling at him, “you are more like a—”
“Please go on,” he begged.
“I daren’t,” she answered, shaking her head.
“Then you aren’t in the least like a marchioness,” he declared. “At least, not like our American ideas of one.”
She laughed outright.
“Bring your chair quite close to mine,” she ordered, “I really want to talk to you.”
He obeyed, and affected to be absorbed in the contemplation of the rings on the hand which a great artist had called the most beautiful in England. She withdrew it a little peevishly, after a moment’s pause.
“I want to talk about the Barringtons,” she said. “Do you know that they are practically ruined?”
“I heard that Barrington had been gambling on the Stock Exchange the last few days,” he answered.
“He has lost a great deal of money,” she answered, “and they were almost on their last legs before. Are you going to set them straight again?”