“Of course.  And you are coming also.  Hasn’t mother asked you?” she inquired in surprise.

“No.”

“How silly!  She must have forgotten.  She told me she intended to ask you to have a seat in the car.  The Comte d’Autun is coming with us.”

“Ah!  He admires you, Dorise, hence I don’t like him,” Hugh blurted forth.

“But, surely, you’re not jealous, you dear old thing!” laughed the girl, tantalizing him.  Perhaps she would not have uttered those words which cut deeply into his heart had she known the truth concerning the tragedy at the Villa Amette.

“I don’t like him because he seems to live by gambling,” Hugh declared.  “I know your mother likes him very much—­of course!”

“And she likes you, too, dear.”

“She may like me, but I fear she begins to suspect that we love each other, dearest,” he said in a hard tone.  “If she does, she will take care in future to keep us apart, and I—­I shall lose you, Dorise!”

“No—­no, you won’t.”

“Ah!  But I shall!  Your mother will never allow you to marry a man who has only just sufficient to rub along with, and who is already in debt to his tailor.  What hope is there that we can ever marry?”

“My dear Hugh, you are awfully pessimistic to-day,” the girl cried.  “What is up with you?  Have you lost heavily at the tables—­or what?”

“No.  I have been thinking of the future,” he said in a hard voice so very unusual to him.  “I am thinking of your mother’s choice of a husband for you—­George Sherrard.”

“I hate him—­the egotistical puppy!” exclaimed the girl, her fine eyes flashing with anger.  “I’ll never marry him—­never!”

But Hugh Henfrey made no reply, and they went on together in silence.

“Cannot you trust me, Hugh?” asked the girl at last in a low earnest tone.

“Yes, dearest.  I trust you, of course.  But I feel certain that your mother, when she knows our secret, will forbid your seeing me, and press on your marriage with Sherrard.  Remember, he’s a rich man, and your mother adores the Golden Calf.”

“I know she does.  If people have money she wants to know them.  Her first inquiry is whether they have money.”

It was on the tip of Hugh’s tongue to remark with sarcasm that such ideals might well be expected of the wife of a jerry-builder in Golder’s green.  But he hesitated.  Lady Ranscomb was always well disposed towards him, and he had had many good times at her house and on the grouse moor she rented in Scotland each year for the benefit of her intimate friends.  Though she had been the wife of a small builder and had commenced her married life in an eight-roomed house on the fringe of Hampstead Heath, yet she had picked up society manners marvellously well, being a woman of quick intelligence and considerable wit.  Nevertheless, she had no soul above money, and gaiety was as life to her.  She could not live without it.  Dorise had been given an excellent education, and after three years at Versailles was now voted one of the prettiest and most charming girls in London society.  Hence mother and daughter were sought after everywhere, and their doings were constantly being chronicled in the newspapers.