“Well, I’m poor. I’ve nothing of my own but a hundred a year. Oh, I owe bills I simply dare not think of. Such piles--especially in Paris. Mother is even worse; she owes thousands! Of course, then there’s her bridge losings, and her new motor, and Monte Carlo and all that. When she married his lordship she had a thousand a year, and a little girl. She has the little girl still--but the thousand a year has departed.” “But is not father rich?” “Yes. Nothing much for all he has to keep up. He says he is a poor rich man. Lots of the farms are on his hands. There is the big London house, the villa at Cannes, this place, with fifty servants. And mother is a bad manager, and frightfully extravagant.” “Well, av course I’ve always been poor, and twenty pounds seems a fortune. Tell me, Tito, why do ye spend so much on yer back?” “Because I must be in the swim. One cannot be seen over and over in the same gown. When I go on a three days’ visit, I take at least a dozen frocks. Then, I’m plain--I require dressing. Now _you_ could wear anything.” “Is that so? or are ye joking?” “Why, you know you are most awfully pretty! I say”--and she pulled up a cushion with a tug and selected a fresh cigarette--“don’t you feel a bit funny? Outside you look all right”--she paused and surveyed her companion critically, then resumed, “but how is your mind? How are you _inside_?” “Faix, then I’ll tell you! I feel just as you would if, after being reared in grandeur all your life, you were suddenly struck down below stairs, among a pack of strangers, and told to scour the pots, and wash up dishes.” “I’d be bound to smash everything before me.” “That’s just how I feel,” said Joseline with fervour. “I’m sure to break lots of things.” “You mean the laws of good manners. Well, you will soon learn; you see, you are a lady born.” “But I’ve lived all my life as a working girl”--and she held out her hands. “I may be Lady Joseline to look at, but I’m just Mary Foley dressed up.” “There is one thing you’ll break, my dear, and that is hearts.” “Arrah, go on with you, and your blarney!” “Go where?”--laughing. “I really wonder you were not married long ago.” “Faix, there is more nor you wonders at that,” she answered sedately. “Who pray?” “Why, the boys I would not take!” “Do tell me about them?” “Augh, sure, they were only just common chaps.” “What a providential mercy you did not _take_ one of them! That would have been a fine complication!” “Have you any chap, Tito?” “Oh, heaps of a sort. Of course, I’ve played about.” “What’s that?” “Sitting in corners and writing little notes and having jokes, but nothing serious. Mother thinks it is time there _was_ something serious; you see, I’m twenty-three”--and she blew a cloud. “And I’ve no looks or money; I’m only smart and bright and well turned out, and an A1 dancer and bridger.” “What’s a bridger?”