“A lot of silly nonsense!” grumbled the earl.

“What is?”

“This foolery of titles and aristocracy.  Silly fetish-worship!  One man’s as good as another. . . .”

“This is the spirit of ’76!” said George approvingly.

“Regular I.W.W. stuff,” agreed Billie.  “Shake hands the President of the Bolsheviki!”

Lord Marshmoreton ignored the interruption.  There was a strange look in his eyes.  It was evident to George, watching him with close interest, that here was a revelation of the man’s soul; that thoughts, locked away for years in the other’s bosom were crying for utterance.

“Damned silly nonsense!  When I was a boy, I wanted to be an engine-driver.  When I was a young man, I was a Socialist and hadn’t any idea except to work for my living and make a name for myself.  I was going to the colonies.  Canada.  The fruit farm was actually bought.  Bought and paid for!” He brooded a moment on that long-lost fruit farm.  “My father was a younger son.  And then my uncle must go and break his neck hunting, and the baby, poor little chap, got croup or something . . .  And there I was, saddled with the title, and all my plans gone up in smoke . . .  Silly nonsense!  Silly nonsense!”

He bit the end of a cigar.  “And you can’t stand up against it,” he went on ruefully.  “It saps you.  It’s like some damned drug.  I fought against it as long as I could, but it was no use.  I’m as big a snob as any of them now.  I’m afraid to do what I want to do.  Always thinking of the family dignity.  I haven’t taken a free step for twenty-five years.”

George and Billie exchanged glances.  Each had the uncomfortable feeling that they were eavesdropping and hearing things not meant to be heard.  George rose.

“I must be getting along now,” he said.  “I’ve one or two things to do.  Glad to have seen you again, Billie.  Is the show going all right?”

“Fine.  Making money for you right along.”

“Good-bye, Lord Marshmoreton.”

The earl nodded without speaking.  It was not often now that he rebelled even in thoughts against the lot which fate had thrust upon him, and never in his life before had he done so in words.  He was still in the grip of the strange discontent which had come upon him so abruptly.

There was a silence after George had gone.

“I’m glad we met George,” said Billie.  “He’s a good boy.”  She spoke soberly.  She was conscious of a curious feeling of affection for the sturdy, weather-tanned little man opposite her.  The glimpse she had been given of his inner self had somehow made him come alive for her.

“He wants to marry my daughter,” said Lord Marshmoreton.  A few moments before, Billie would undoubtedly have replied to such a statement with some jocular remark expressing disbelief that the earl could have a daughter old enough to be married.  But now she felt oddly serious and unlike her usual flippant self.