She's an only daughter,
and there's a little money at the back of the family, I expect;
but I fancy the Companion of the Fighting Saints lives mainly on
his pension, which, of course, is purely personal, and so dies with
him."
Cyril folded up the note without noticing Nevitt's words and put it
in his pocket, somewhat carefully and obtrusively. "Thank you," he
said, in a very quiet tone, "I didn't ask you about Miss Clifford's
fortune. When I want information on that point I'll apply for
it plainly. But meanwhile I don't think any lady's name should be
dragged into conversation and bandied about like that, by an absolute
stranger."
"Oh, now you needn't be huffy," Nevitt answered, with a
still sweeter smile, showing all those pearly teeth of his to the
greatest advantage. "I didn't mean to put your back up, and I'll
tell you what I'll do for you. I'll heap coals of fire on your
head, you ungrateful man. I'll return good for evil. You shall
have an invitation to Mrs. Holker's garden party on Saturday week
at Chetwood Court, and there you'll be almost sure to meet the
beautiful stranger."
But at that very moment, at Craighton, Tilgate, Mr. Reginald
Clifford, C.M.G., a stiff little withered-up official Briton, half
mummified by long exposure to tropical suns, was sitting in his
drawing-room with Mrs.
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