“Oh,” picking it up, and tearing it open, “it’s from Martin. He is detained till Saturday--three whole days;” then, turning to the butler, she said, “You can take away the tea-table.” As soon as the tea-things were removed, and Payne and his satellite had departed, Lady Kesters produced a gold case, selected a cigarette, settled herself comfortably in a corner of the sofa, and said-- “Now, Owen, light up, and let us have a pow-wow! Have you any plan in your head?” “No,” he answered, “I’m afraid my head is, as usual, pretty empty, and of course this ultimatum of Uncle Richard’s has been a bit of a facer; I was in hopes he’d give me another chance.” “What sort of chance?” “Something in South Africa.” “Something in South Africa has been the will-o’-the-wisp that has ruined lots of young men,” she said; “you would do no good there, O. You haven’t enough push, originality, or cheek; I believe you would find yourself a tram conductor in Cape Town.” “Then what about India? I might get a billet on some tea estate--yes--and some shooting as well!” “Tea-planters’ assistants, as far as I can gather, don’t have much time for shooting. There is the tea-picking to look after, and the coolies to overseer in all weathers. I believe the work in the rains is awful and the pay is poor--you’d be much more likely to get fever than shooting. Have you any other scheme?” She glanced at her brother, who was lying back in an arm-chair, his hands clasped behind his head, his eyes fixed on the fire. Yes, Owen was undeniably good to look at, with his clean-shaven, clear-cut face, well-knit figure, and length of limb. He shook his head, but after a moment said-- “Now let us have your ideas, Sis. You are always a sure draw!” “What about matrimony?” she asked composedly, and without raising her eyes. He turned and surveyed her with a stare of ironical amusement. “On the principle that what is not enough for one will support two--eh?” “How can you be so silly! I don’t mean love in a cottage; I’m thinking of an heiress. There are several, so to speak, on the market, and I believe I could marry you off remarkably well, if you were not too critical; there is Miss Goldberger--a really good sort--enormously rich, an orphan, and hideous to the verge of fascination. She is in the racing set--and----” “No, thank you, Sis,” he broke in; “I’d rather drive a ’bus or motor any day than live on my wife’s fortune. If I married one of your rich friends I should hate it, and I guarantee that she’d soon hate _me_; anyway, I’m not keen on getting married. So, as the young men in shops say, ‘and the next article, please?’” “Of course I know I need not again waste my breath talking to you of business. Martin got you a capital opening in Mincing Lane, and you threw it up; he’d taken a lot of trouble, and he is rather sore about it still. He fancies you look down on the City.”