“Oh, no,” she said, languidly; “on the contrary, it showed me the value of money.  I saw that if I had not been rich, the daughter of a rich man, I should have been of no account in their eyes.  They were always professing to love me, but I was quite aware that it was because I was rich enough to be able to buy pleasure for them.”

“Unpleasant kind of people,” remarked Stafford.

“No; just the average,” she said, coolly.  “Nearly all men and women are alike—­worldly, selfish, self-seeking.  Look at my father,” she went on, as coolly as before.  “He thinks of nothing but money; he has spent his life fighting, scrambling, struggling for it; and look at yours—­”

“Oh, hold on!” said Stafford, laughing, but reddening a little.  “You’re very much mistaken if you think my father is that kind of man.”

She smiled.

“Why, everybody has some story of his—­what shall I call it?—­acuteness, sharpness; and of the wonderful way in which he has always got what he wanted.  I don’t want to be offensive, Mr. Orme, but I’m afraid both our fathers are in the same category.  And that both would sacrifice anything or anyone to gain their ends.”

Stafford laughed again.

“You’re altogether wrong, Miss Falconer,” he said.  “I happen to know that my governor is one of the most generous and tender-hearted of men and that whatever he has gained it is by fair means, and by no sacrifice of others.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I envy your faith in him.  But then you are a very enviable man, I’m told.”

“As how?” asked Stafford.  “Pretty here, isn’t it?  Here’s one of those beastly steamers coming:  they spoil the lake, but they’re very convenient, I suppose.”

She glanced at the big steamer puffing towards them obtrusively and sending a trail of smoke across the green and violet of the hills.

“Oh, I’m told you are the most popular man in London; that you have the world at your feet, that you are only waiting to see which duchess you prefer to throw your handkerchief to—­”

Stafford coloured.

“What rot!—­I beg your pardon, Miss Falconer.  Of course, I know you are only chaffing me.”

“Isn’t it true—­about the duchess, I mean?” she asked, so coolly, so indifferently, that Stafford was compelled to take her seriously.

“Nary a word,” he said, brightly; then, with a sudden gravity:  “If you happen to hear such nonsense again, Miss Falconer, you can, if you care to, contradict it flatly.  I am not in the least likely to marry a duchess; indeed, I wouldn’t marry the highest and greatest of them, if she’d have me, which is highly improbable.”

“Do you mean to say that you have no ambition, that you would marry for—­love?” she asked.

Stafford stopped rowing for a moment and looked at her grimly.

“What on earth else should I marry for?” he asked.  “Wouldn’t you?”