"A title."
"What! Carteret?"
"Yes."
"The thundering old fool!"
"Oh, Harry!"
"I mean it. If you weren't here, Gwen, I'd swear. It's always the way with those tradespeople who have started as peasants or domestics and made money. They would sell themselves or their daughters to the devil for a title. If Beelzebub, the prince of the devils, came along they would marry a daughter to him, so as to be able to speak of her as Her Royal Highness the Princess of the Devils."
"Oh, Harry, stop! You mustn't say that. Surely Mr. Carteret is not so bad as that."
"He's not far short of it."
"You never told me that."
"There are a lot of things I don't tell you. They wouldn't be pleasant for you to hear, nor for me to tell. And, anyway, in this little hole-in-the-corner of the world you have to associate with all those fellows more or less. It's easier for you if you do not know too much about them."