"Mr. Brice-Ashton is one of our hustling young grain speculators," explained Dolores. "Before he went to Michamac he almost cornered the market in wild oats."
"Now, Miss Dodie!" smirked Ashton. "Wait! I'll do your elbowing."
But the girl was already plunging into the crowd, in the wake of her mother, the maids, and the porters. Ashton hastened after, in a vain attempt to overtake her. Crowds part easier before a pretty, smiling, fashionably dressed girl than before a foppish young man who affects the French mode.
The card with the list of clubs fell from the hand that Lord James raised to screw in his monocle.
"Stow it, Jimmy," growled Blake. "I feel just prime for smashing that fool window."
Lord James slipped the monocle into his pocket, and twisted at the end of his short mustache.
"Don't blame you, old man," he remarked. "Her guv'nor was a bit crusty. Quite a clever girl that—the cousin—eh?"
"Miss Dolores? She sure is a hummer. Doesn't take after her mother; so she's all right," assented Blake. He added eagerly, "Say, Jimmy, she's just the one for you. You're so blondy blonde you need a real brunette to set off your charms."
"Sorry, Tom. Saw too much of some one else coming up to Aden—and before. Shouldn't have to remind you of that."
"Damn the luck!" swore Blake. "Well, we've come to the show-down. She's home now; agreement's off."