zing him. Perhaps she would not have uttered those words which
cut deeply into his heart had she known the truth concerning the tragedy
at the Villa Amette.

"I don't like him because he seems to live by gambling," Hugh declared.
"I know your mother likes him very much--of course!"

"And she likes you, too, dear."

"She may like me, but I fear she begins to suspect that we love each
other, dearest," he said in a hard tone. "If she does, she will take
care in future to keep us apart, and I--I shall lose you, Dorise!"

"No--no, you won't."

"Ah! But I shall! Your mother will never allow you to marry a man who
has only just sufficient to rub along with, and who is already in debt
to his tailor. What hope is there that we can ever marry?"

"My dear Hugh, you are awfully pessimistic to-day," the girl cried.
"What is up with you? Have you lost heavily at the tables--or what?"

"No. I have been thinking of the future," he said in a hard voice so
very unusual to him. "I am thinking of your mother's choice of a husband
for you--George Sherrard."

"I hate him--the egotistical puppy!" exclaimed the girl, her fine eyes
flashing with anger. "I'll never marry him--_never_!"

But Hugh Henfrey made no reply, and they went on together in silence.

"Cannot you trust me, Hugh?" asked the girl at last in a low earnest
tone.

"Yes, dearest. I trust you, of course. But I feel certain that your
mother, when she knows our secret, will forbid your seeing me, and press
on your marriage with Sherrard. Remember, he's a rich man, and your
mother adores the Golden Calf."

"I know she does. If people have money she wants to know them. Her first
inquiry is whether they have money."

It was on the tip of Hugh's tongue to remark with sarcasm that such
ideals might well be expected of the wife of a jerry-builder in Golder's
green. But he hesitated. Lady Ranscomb was always well disposed towards
him, and he had had many good times at her house and on the grouse
moor she rented in Scotland each year for the benefit of her intimate
friends. Though she had been the wife of a small builder and had
commenced her married life in an eight-roomed house on the fringe of
Hampstead Heath, yet she had picked up society manners marvellously
well, being a woman of quick intelligence and considerable wit.
Nevertheless, she had no soul above money, and gaiety was as life to
her. She could not live without it. Dorise had been given an excellent
education,