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gone now—like my dream of making a fabulous fortune in some unknown way and dazzling him with it (held well out of reach) when he was particularly hard up. That stayed longer. I believe I could do variations on it now.”

“I don’t know that I wonder,” said Derwent slowly.

“Well, I know you don’t like that sort of talk. It’s ill-bred (I never was bred at all) and it isn’t pretty. Plenty of other things to talk about—the Marchmonts are pleasanter, for instance. I think the women have been studying the Williamson motor-books, and imagine that I must be a nobleman in disguise. Miss Marchmont (her name is Gladys, did you see her on the steps? a big girl with brownish hair, not bad-looking, in a way) lent me one of the books and watched me narrowly as I took it. I feel quite embarrassed, and I think she was pretty sure just then. She can’t quite make up her mind how to talk to me. She’s all right, but I like her mother best. I’ve been having quite a good time; they mostly take my suggestions about the route, which rather amuses me. I say, perhaps I’d better be going back to the hotel.”

As they turned back, Derwent said, “Why don’t you like the son?”

“Oh, because he’s a fool and knows nothing about cars and is always putting me in my place. I ought to be used to that by now. I am, in a way—I don’t mind working under a man, but I can’t get used to being at the orders of a Percy with the brains of a pug-dog. I’m not respectful by nature. It’s all good discipline, I suppose. . . . Derwent, what an egotistical young brute I’ve been to-day! And I never thanked you properly for what you did for me———”

“Don’t,” said George decidedly.

“But I bolted—so jolly ungrateful. I was nervous, and I couldn’t pay you back. I expect you understood—you’re the sort that would. Good-bye—here’s your entrance.