Iris looked puzzled. "Is that your way of telling me that fine feathers would make me a fine bird?" she asked.
"No. I intend my words to be understood in their ordinary sense. You are very, very rich, Miss Deane—an extravagantly wealthy young person."
"Of course you know you are talking nonsense. Why, only the other day my father said—"
"Excuse me. What is the average price of a walking-dress from a leading Paris house?"
"Thirty pounds."
"And an evening dress?"
"Oh, anything, from fifty upwards."
He picked up a few pieces of quartz from the canvas sheet.
"Here is your walking-dress," he said, handing her a lump weighing about a pound. "With the balance in the heap there you can stagger the best-dressed woman you meet at your first dinner in England."
"Do you mean by pelting her?" she inquired, mischievously.