Once or twice his father looked across at him, and nodded and smiled as if he loved to see him, and wanted to speak to him; and Stafford smiled and nodded back, as if he understood.

When the men rose to go to the drawing-room, Sir Stephen caught him up at the door, and laid a hand upon his arm.

“Happy, dear boy?” he asked in a low voice, full of affection.  “I’ve seen scarcely anything of you.  No, no, I’m not complaining!  It was understood that you were to have a free hand—­but—­but I’ve missed you!  Never mind; this crowd will have gone presently, and then—­ah, then we’ll have a jolly time to ourselves!  Things are going well,” he added, with a significant smile, as he glanced at Wirsch and Griffenberg, who, well-fed and comfortable, were in front of them.

“I’m glad, sir,” said Stafford.

Sir Stephen smiled, but checked a sigh and a shrug of the shoulders.

“Yes, my little schemes are flourishing; but”—­he looked at the financiers again—­“they are rather a hard team to drive!”

As Stafford entered the drawing-room, he heard Lady Clansford enquiring for Miss Falconer.

“We want her to sing, Mr. Orme, and I cannot find her.”

“I think she is on the terrace,” said Bertie, who always seemed to know where everybody was.

Stafford went out by one of the windows, and saw Maude Falconer pacing up and down at the end of the terrace.  She was superbly dressed, and as he looked at her, he involuntarily admired the grace of her movements.  Mr. Falconer was walking with bent head and hands behind his back; but now and again he looked at her sideways with his sharp eyes.  Stafford did not like to interrupt them, and withdrew to the other end of the terrace, with a cigarette, to wait till they joined him.

“Young Orme has come out to look for you,” said Mr. Falconer, without turning his head.

“I know,” she said, though she also had not turned.  “They want me to sing.  I will go in directly.  You have not answered my question, father.  Is Sir Stephen very rich, or is all this only sham?  I have heard you say so often that display very often only covers poverty.”

Falconer eyed her curiously.

“Why do you want to know?  What does it matter to you?”

She shrugged her shoulders impatiently, resentfully, and he went on: 

“Yes, he’s rich; confoundedly so.  But he is playing a big game, in which he is running some risks; and he’ll want all his money to help him win it.”

“And are you joining him in the game?” she asked.

He looked at her with surprise.  There was a note in her voice which he had never heard before, a note which conveyed to him the fact that she was no longer a girl, but a woman.

“Upon my soul, I don’t know why you ask!  Well, well!”—­she had repeated the impatient gesture.  “I haven’t made up my mind yet.  He wants me to join him.  I could be of service to him; on the other hand, I could—­yes, get in his way; for I know some of the points of the game he is playing.  Yes, I could help him—­or spoil him.”