"Well, I suppose he is!" And Angus threw back his head and laughed. "He's to be back in town for the 'season'—and you know what the London 'season' is!"
"I'm sure we don't!" said Mary, with an amused glance. "Tell us!"
"An endless round of lunches, dinners, balls, operas, theatres, card-parties, and inane jabber," he answered. "A mixture of various kinds of food which people eat recklessly with the natural results,—dyspepsia, inertia, mental vacuity, and general uselessness. A few Court 'functions,' some picture shows, and two or three great races—and—that's all. Some unfortunate marriages are usually the result of each year's motley."
"And you think the millionaire you speak of will be one of the unfortunate ones?" said Helmsley.
"Yes, David, I do! If he's going back to London for the season, Lucy Sorrel will never let him out of her sight again! She's made up her mind to be a Mrs. Millionaire, and she's not troubled by any over-sensitiveness or delicacy of sentiment."
"That I quite believe—from what you have told me,"—and Helmsley smiled. "But what do the papers—what does the Cooing Column say?"
"The Cooing Column says that one of the world's greatest millionaires, Mr. David Helmsley, who has been abroad for nearly a year for the benefit of his health, will return to his mansion in Carlton House Terrace this month for the 'season.'"
"Is that all?"
"That's all. Mary, my bonnie Mary,"—and Angus put an arm tenderly round the waist of his promised wife—"Your husband may, perhaps—only perhaps!—become famous—but you'll never, never be a Mrs. Millionaire!"
She laughed and blushed as he kissed her.