'Of whom do you speak?'
'Why, of Dalmaine, of course.'
'My dear father!—A philanthropist! One of the forces of the time!'
Mr. Newthorpe leaned back and laughed.
'Perfectly true,' he said presently. 'Whence we may arrive at certain conclusions with regard to mankind at large and our time in particular. That poor pretty girl! It's too bad.'
'She is happy.'
'True again. And it would be foolish to wish her miserable. Bell, let us join hands and go to the old ferryman's boat together.'
'It would cost me no pang, father. Still we will walk a little longer on the sea-shore.'
And whilst this conversation was going on, Mr. and Mrs. Dalmaine sat after dinner on the balcony of their hotel, talking occasionally. Dalmaine smoked a cigar: his eyes betrayed the pleasures of digestion and thought on high matters of State.
He said all at once: