"You hardened sinner. Yes! There is a woman, and she is the cause of my trouble."
"The usual case," said the worldly-wise Richard. "Who is she?"
"Her name is Alice," said Gore, slowly, his eyes on the damp grass.
"A pretty unromantic, domestic name. 'Don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?'"
"I'm always remembering her," said Gore, angrily. "Don't quote that song, Dick. I used to sing it to her. Poor Alice."
"What's her other name?"
"Malleson—Alice Malleson!"
"Great Scott!" said Conniston, his jaw falling. "The niece of Miss Berengaria Plantagenet?"
"Yes! Do you know—?" Here Gore broke off, annoyed with himself. "Of course. How could I forget? Miss Plantagenet is your aunt."
"My rich aunt, who could leave me five thousand a year if she'd only die. But I daresay she'll leave it to Alice with the light-brown hair, and you'll marry her."