"Then you are in love with him. See here, Con; have you been borrowing from him, too?"
Constance's exquisite, self-indulgent face was set and hard as she stared past her sister. "He's paid a bill or two. I didn't dare take them to father."
A soft whistle on a single, low note issued from Dee's lips. "That's not in the book of rules."
"I know it. But he was so wonderful about it. You'd think that I was the one conferring the favour by taking his"—Constance gulped—"his money."
"Yes. Cary's a thoroughbred. Whatever happens I can't see that Freddie has any kick coming. Maquereau!"
"What's that?"
"Tasty French slang. The English is shorter and uglier. Con, how much are you in for?"
"Too much.... You marry money, Dee," counselled Constance fiercely. "It lasts. The other thing doesn't."
"With me it doesn't even begin. Then I can take Cary?"
"Of course. I almost wish you'd never bring him back."