“You are?  What on earth for?”

“I’ve jolly well got to do something,” said Hornby with momentary gloom, “and I think farming’s about the best thing I can do.  One gets a lot of shooting and riding yon know.  And then there are tennis parties and dances.  And you make a pot of money, there’s no doubt about that.”

“But I thought you were in some motor business in London.”

“Well, I was, in a way.  But—­I thought you’d have heard about it.  Mother’s been telling everybody.  Governor won’t speak to me.  Altogether, things are rotten.  I want to get out of this beastly country as quick as I can.”

“Would you like me to give you the letter at once?” said Nora, going over to an escritoire that stood near the window.

“I wish you would.  Fact is,” he went on, addressing no one in particular, as Nora was already deep in her letter and Miss Pringle, having exhausted the possibilities of the rug, was gazing stonily into space, “I’m broke.  I was all right as long as I stuck to bridge; I used to make money on that.  Over a thousand a year.”

“What!”

Horror was stronger than Miss Pringle’s resolution to take no further part in the conversation with this extraordinary and apparently unprincipled young man.

“Playing regularly, you know.  If I hadn’t been a fool I’d have stuck to that, but I got bitten with chemi.”

“With what?” asked Nora, over her shoulder.

“Chemin de fer.  Never heard of it?  I got in the habit of going to Thornton’s.  I suppose you never heard of him either.  He keeps a gambling hell.  Gives you a slap-up supper for nothing, as much pop as you can drink, and cashes your checks like a bird.  The result is, I’ve lost every bob I had and then Thornton sued me on a check I’d given him.  The governor forked out, but he says I’ve got to go to Canada.  I’m never going to gamble again, I can tell you that.”

“Oh, well, that’s something,” murmured Nora cheerfully.

“You can’t make money at chemi,” went on Hornby, relapsing once more into gloom; “the cagnotte’s bound to clear you out in the end.  When I come back I’m going to stick to bridge.  There are always plenty of mugs about, and if you have a good head for cards, you can’t help making an income out of it.”

“But I thought you said you were never going——­” began Miss Pringle, but, thinking better of it, abandoned her sentence in mid-air.

“Here is your letter,” said Nora, holding it out to him.

“Thanks, awfully.  I daresay I shan’t want it, you know.  I expect I shall get offered a job the moment I land, but there’s no harm having it.  I’ll be getting along.”

“Good-by, then, and good luck.”

“Good-by,” he said, shaking hands with Nora and Miss Pringle.

“Nora, why don’t you go out to Canada?” said Miss Pringle thoughtfully, as soon as the door had closed after young Hornby.  “Now your brother has a farm of his own, I should think——­”