“My misfortune, perhaps,” he laughed, airily. “The guv’nor has brains—has been a member of Parliament for twenty years, and all that—I haven’t any.”
“You have.”
“They say I haven’t, at Cambridge.”
She was silent for some moments. What strange freak of Fate had thrown them together—he, the very last man on earth she desired to meet. And yet, she had found him such a bright, cheerful companion!
Her eyes were turned to where Mutimer and her friend, Maud Wilson, were strolling along the seafront.
The young fellow at her side was actually the son of Sir Henry Remington! The baronet’s name burned into her brain—it was branded there, as though seared by a red-hot iron.
The amazing revelation staggered her. That man seated so idly in the chair, his legs stretched out, displaying the latest make in ’Varsity socks, was actually the son of Sir Henry!
She could not believe it.
Raife, on his part, was not exactly blind to the fact that mention of his father’s name had unduly surprised her.
“I fancy you know the guv’nor—eh?” he exclaimed, chaffing her. “Do you? Tell me. Perhaps you’ve met him somewhere? He’s at Upper Brook Street in the season, and at Mentone in winter. We have a villa there.”