Some commonplace reply was made to this inquiry, and Sir George went on in his smooth, well-bred tones. “A charming gathering, everything perfect and in good taste, as usual. I really think this is almost the most pleasing house in London; luxury without ostentation, wealth without oppressive magnificence. But then who can wonder at it when you have host and hostess who pull together so splendidly?” He was a great hand at compliments, this elegant-mannered man of the world, well-known on every race-course in England, well-known in Paris and at Monte Carlo, where he played with varying fortune, sometimes winning, more frequently losing. For he was an inveterate gambler. And in paying his flowery compliments, either directly, or as in this case, obliquely through the medium of a third party, he generally laid it on with a trowel, so to speak. But to-night, in praising the Morrices as he did, he was not speaking much more than the truth. For wealthy as they were, both Morrice and his wife loathed anything in the shape of ostentation. They left that to the _nouveau riche_. The man had been used to riches from a boy, they were no novelty to him, for his grandfather had founded the great business of which he had for so many years been the head. His wife, though poor for her position, was said to be descended from a very old family. Such people as these were not likely to shock their friends and acquaintances with vulgar display. The house in Deanery Street looked very charming with its softly shaded lights, its profusion of flowers, its crowd of beautifully dressed women and well-groomed men. It wanted about three weeks to Christmas. Very shortly the host and hostess were leaving for a month’s sojourn at Mürren, to enjoy the ski-ing. Richard Croxton and Rosabelle Sheldon, a niece and ward of the financier, were to accompany them. Sir George, who was a great talker, proceeded with his complimentary remarks. “Yes, certainly, one of the most charming houses in London, if not actually _the_ most charming. Astonishing how a place takes its atmosphere and tone from the people who run it! Dear old Rupert is one of the best, and his wife is so tactful and refined.” He gave a little involuntary sigh. “Ah, it is wonderful what wealth can do, combined with tact and manners.” Young Croxton looked at him wonderingly. That sigh seemed very heartfelt. Sir George was reputed to be wealthy, he surely could not be envious of another man’s riches. He could not be envious either of the tact and manners of his hosts, for he was credited with the possession of both in great abundance. He caught the young man’s puzzled look, and hastened to explain. “I am not a pauper myself, and I can make a bit of a show when I want to—but of course nothing to compare with this. Rupert is wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice. He thinks in millions, where we little men think only in thousands.”