“Is it true that Mr. Siward is interested in building electric roads?” asked Sylvia curiously.
“I don't know, child. Why?”
“Nothing. I wondered.”
“Why?”
“Mr. Mortimer said so.”
“Then I suppose he is. I'll ask Kemp if you like. Why? Isn't it all right to build them?”
“I suppose so. Howard is in it somehow. In fact Howard's company is behind Mr. Siward's, I believe.”
Grace Ferrall turned and looked at the girl beside her, laughing outright.
“Oh, Howard doesn't do mysterious financial things to nice young men because they draw impudent pictures of him running after his dog—or for any other reason. That, dear, is one of those skilfully developed portions of an artistic plot; and plots exist only in romance. So do villains; and besides, my cousin isn't one. Besides that, if Howard is in that thing, no doubt Kemp and I are too. So your nice young man is in very safe company.”
“You draw such silly inferences,” said Sylvia coolly; but there was a good deal of colour in her cheeks; and she knew it and pulled her big motor veil across her face, fastening it under her chin. All of which amused Grace Ferrall infinitely until the subtler significance of the girl's mental processes struck her, sobering her own thoughts. Sylvia, too, had grown serious in her preoccupation; and the partie-Ã -deux terminated a few minutes later in a duet of silence over the tea-cups in the gun-room.