“Oh!  Doesn’t she?”

“Y-es. . . .  You know how young girls are.  Yes, she does—­now.  But a year or two with that crowd—­and the duchess being good to her, and Elliscombe yawning and looking like a sleepy Lohengrin or some damned prince in his Horse Guards’ helmet!—­Selwyn, I can see the end of it.  She can’t stand it; she’s too young not to get over it. . . .  So, what would you do?”

“Who is she, Gerald?”

“I won’t tell you.”

“Oh! . . .  Of course she’s the right sort?”

“Perfectly.”

“Young?”

“Very.  Out last season.”

Selwyn rose and began to pace the floor; Kit-Ki, disturbed, looked up, then resumed her purring.

“There’s nothing dishonourable in this, of course,” said Selwyn, halting short.

“No,” said the boy.  “I went to her mother and asked for her, and was sent about my business.  Then I went to her father.  You know him.  He was decent, bland, evasive, but decent.  Said his daughter needed a couple of seasons in London; hinted of some prior attachment.  Which is rot; because she loves me—­she admits it.  Well, I said to him, ’I’m going to marry Gladys’; and he laughed and tried to look at his moustache; and after a while he asked to be excused.  I took the count.  Then I saw Gladys at the Craigs’, and I said, ’Gladys, if you’ll give up the whole blooming heiress business and come with me, I’ll make you the happiest girl in Manhattan.’  And she looked me straight in the eyes and said, ‘I’d rather grow up with you than grow old forgetting you.’”

“Did she say that?” asked Selwyn.

“She said,’We’ve the greatest chance in the world, Gerald, to make something of each other.  Is it a good risk?’ And I said, ’It is the best risk in the world if you love me.’  And she said, ’I do, dearly; I’ll take my chance.’  And that’s how it stands, Philip. . . .  She’s at the Craigs’—­a suit-case and travelling-gown upstairs.  Suddy Gray and Betty Craig are standing for it, and”—­with a flush—­“there’s a little church, you know—­”

“Around the corner.  I know.  Did you telephone?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause; the older man dropped his hands into his pockets and stepped quietly in front of Gerald; and for a full minute they looked squarely at one another, unwinking.

“Well?” asked Gerald, almost tremulously.  “Can’t you say, ’Go ahead!’?”

“Don’t ask me.”

“No, I won’t,” said the boy simply.  “A man doesn’t ask about such matters; he does them. . . .  Tell Austin and Nina. . . .  And give this note to Eileen.”  He opened a portfolio and laid an envelope in Selwyn’s hands.  “And—­by George!—­I almost forgot!  Here”—­and he laid a check across the note in Selwyn’s hand—­“here’s the balance of what you’ve advanced me.  Thank God, I’ve made it good, every cent.  But the debt is only the deeper. . . .  Good-bye, Philip.”

Selwyn held the boy’s hand a moment.  Once or twice Gerald thought he meant to speak, and waited, but when he became aware of the check thrust back at him he forced it on Selwyn again, laughing: