Since Mrs. Bond’s arrival there she had had many callers among the nouveau riche, those persons who, having made money at the expense of our gallant British soldiers, have now ousted half the county families from their solid and responsible homes.  Mrs. Bond, being wealthy, had displayed her riches ostentatiously.  She had subscribed lavishly to charities both in Guildford and in Farnham, and hence, among her callers there had been at least three magistrates and their flat-footed wives, as well as a plethoric alderman, and half a dozen insignificant persons possessing minor titles.

The display of wealth had always been one of Molly Maxwell’s games.  It always paid.  She knew that to succeed one must spend, and now, with her recently acquired “fortune,” she spent to a very considerable tune.

“I do wish you’d go in the car to Guildford and exchange those library books, Louise,” exclaimed the handsome woman, suddenly looking up from her paper.  “We’ve got those horrid Brailsfords coming to lunch.  I was bound to ask them back.”

“Can’t you come, too?” asked the girl.

“No.  I expect Mr. Benton this morning.”

“I didn’t know he was back from Paris.  I’m so glad he’s coming,” replied the girl.  “He’ll stay all the afternoon, of course?”

“I hope so.  Go at once and get back as soon as you can, dear.  Choose me some nice new books, won’t you?”

Louise Lambert, Benton’s adopted daughter, turned from the leaded window.  In the strong morning light she looked extremely charming, but upon her countenance there was a deep, thoughtful expression, as though she were entirely preoccupied.

“I’ve been thinking of Hugh Henfrey,” the woman remarked suddenly.  “I wonder why he never writes to you?” she added, watching the girl’s face.

Louise’s cheeks reddened slightly, as she replied with affected carelessness: 

“If he doesn’t care to write, I shall trouble no longer.”

“He’s still abroad, is he not?  The last I heard of him was that he was at Monte Carlo with that Ranscomb girl.”

Mention of Dorise Ranscomb caused the girl’s cheeks to colour more deeply.

“Yes,” she said, “I heard that also.”

“You don’t seem to care very much, Louise,” remarked the woman.  “And yet, he’s such an awfully nice young fellow.”

“You’ve said that dozens of times before,” was Louise’s abrupt reply.

“And I mean it.  You could do a lot worse than to marry him, remember, though he is a bit hard-up nowadays.  But things with him will right themselves before long.”

“Why do you suggest that?” asked the girl resentfully.

“Well—­because, my dear, I know that you are very fond of him,” the woman laughed.  “Now, you can’t deny it—­can you?”

The girl, who had travelled so widely ever since she had left school, drew a deep breath and, turning her head, gazed blankly out of the window again.