Derwent watched them go, cursing the young soldier.
"An insolent puppy—a mere boy!" he said. "It is dishonourable for him to be making love to her. He is a pauper!"
De Courcy hardly noticed Derwent beyond a vague wonder at his churlishness.
"Rum beggar, Daphne," he said. "I suppose living so long in a savage place has made him grumpy. Beastly rich, isn't he?"
"Yes. Made it all himself. Nevada must be a glorious place!"
"What a mercenary being you are, Daphne!" he laughed. "I prefer Canterbury, or Grorepound, even. I suppose I shall be jealous of him."
"Mr. Derwent? Why, he is an old man."
"He seems over forty—not old, you know; and he has dollars, which mean diamonds."
He smiled throughout, because it seemed manifestly impossible that any woman should prefer anyone to himself. Jack De Courcy was well satisfied with the work of Nature in fashioning himself.
"Oh, Jack!" she protested.