Dick sighed.
"Marjory's been engaged once—she told me so. I don't think a girl can be expected to know her own mind until she's two or three and twenty. We'd have to take a little flat somewhere, and cut it deuced close; do you think she is the girl to do that, Bob?"
Bob was far from thinking it.
"She proposes to run a motor, Dick, she told me so. You've got fifteen hundred a year and a shooting-box in Scotland, so the hotel says. My place is in Norfolk—I suppose they mean the tent Jack Stevens and I pitched by Horsey Mere last autumn. I didn't say so, though; let's keep it up as long as we can; in for a penny, in for fifteen hundred pound, you know."
Dick drained his glass and appeared to cogitate. Presently he said, almost as though it were an inspiration:
"I tell you what, Bob, let's talk to the 'little widow' about it. I'm sure she's a woman of the world. She'd put us straight, right enough; let's go up and see her."
Bob looked at him scornfully.
"Why, where do you think she is, then?"
"Who, Mrs. Kennaird? Why, in Number 43, of course. It's on the board, isn't it?"
"The board be hanged! She's left the hotel—she left this morning, and went up to the chalet, near Benny's."