Denny and I walked off together. As we went he observed:
"I suppose that chap's got no end of money?"
"Stefan—?" I began.
"No, no. Hang it, you're as bad as Miss Hipgrave says. I mean Bennett Hamlyn."
"Oh, yes, absolutely no end to it, I believe."
Denny looked sagacious.
"He's very free with his dinners," he observed.
"Don't let's worry about it," I suggested, taking his arm. I was not worried about it myself. Indeed, for the moment, my island monopolized my mind, and my attachment to Beatrice was not of such a romantic character as to make me ready to be jealous on slight grounds. Mrs. Hipgrave said the engagement was based on "general suitability." Now it is difficult to be very passionate over that.
"If you don't mind, I don't," said Denny, reasonably.
"That's right. It's only a little way Beatrice—" I stopped abruptly. We were now on the steps outside the restaurant, and I had just perceived a scrap of paper lying on the mosaic pavement. I stooped down and picked it up. It proved to be a fragment torn from the menu card. I turned it over.