"I honestly believe that you are diffident," she admitted. "I never met a millionaire before who was, and at first I thought it was a pose with you. Perhaps I was mistaken. You really don't think, then, that you have any attraction apart from your millions?"
"I'm quite sure that I haven't," he answered bitterly.
"A love affair!" she exclaimed, looking into his face scrutinisingly. "And I knew nothing of it!—I, your sponsor, your lady confessor, your—well, heaven knows what I might not be if you would only behave decently! A love affair, indeed! That little yellow-haired chit, I suppose, who is down here raving about you all the time—Sylvia What's-her-name?"
He smiled.
"I know very little of Miss Sylvia Laycey," he said, "beyond the fact that she seems very charming."
"I suppose you ought to marry," she continued regretfully. "It seems a pity, but they'll never leave you alone till you do. What is your type, then? Sylvia Laycey is much too young for you. I suppose you know that."
"I don't think I have one," he answered.
"That's because I am married, of course," she went on. "If you were a sensible man, you would settle down to adore me and not think of anybody else at all. But you won't do it. You'll want to buy palaces and yachts and town houses and theatres, like all the rest of the superfluously rich, and you'll want a musical comedy star to wear your jewels, and a wife to entertain your friends."
"Well, you must admit that I haven't been in a hurry about any of these things yet," he observed.
She looked at him keenly.