“Over six hundred,” said Fulke. “Half of them haven’t seen their money—never will see it. I don’t know where they are. I tell you, complete strangers came in on the deal. I’m afraid to go abroad. . . . Well, that sort of thing’s learned me. I like to know where I am and where I come in.” “But I can’t say I’ll marry you, George. I’m engaged to Hubert.” Fulke handed the papers back. “Sorry,” he said, “but this is no ordinary job. If you wanted me to take you to Goodwood or Lords or The Zoo or something like that, I should be tickled to death. But I’m not giving any more pints of my blood away.” “George,” pleaded Julia, “you’re not going to let me down.” “I shouldn’t think of such a thing,” said Fulke. “But I’m not going to help you out of one preserve into another. It’s not good enough. You seem to forget I love you.” “But if the ring isn’t found I shall have to marry him. D’you want me to do that?” George shrugged his shoulders. “Hubert’s all right,” he said. “I’d just as soon it was him as somebody else. I rather like Hubert.” Miss Willow sat back in her chair and regarded her hands. These were small and beautifully shaped. She remembered that Hubert had once said that he would rather kiss her fingers than any other woman’s lips. Suddenly it occurred to her that she rather liked Hubert too. . . . Of course, his behaviour had been monstrous. It had been very hot, certainly. Abnormally hot. But that was no excuse. Still. . . . He had had no right to do it—not a shadow of right, but he had spoken the truth. She _had_ been outrageously capricious—for the love of the thing. She had meant to pull his leg, and had twisted his tail. She had deliberately devilled him just to see how far she could go: and, before she knew where she was, she had gone too far. . . . Of course, that was no excuse. Still . . . Suddenly she remembered that Hubert had a game leg. All those miles with a knee that wasn’t sound, that, when it was tired, hurt. . . . And he had never pleaded it . . . never so much as referred. . . . And George Fulke was demanding to occupy Hubert’s stall. . . . George Fulke . . . Julia sat up in her chair and picked up the reins. “What are your terms?” she said. “Marriage,” said George laconically. “Our engagement to be announced within one month of yours and Hubert’s being called off. Then I’ll spread myself, Julia. Hang it, I shall have something to sweat for.” “Of course you’re spoiled,” said Miss Willow. “Utterly spoiled.” “In other words, I’m not such a mug as I was. Well, you can thank Sarah and Co. for that.” “D’you still pretend you love me?” “I’m mad about you,” said George. “It’s just because I’m so mad that I can’t and won’t go and hand you to somebody else. Why, I’d—I’d never get over it.” “But if this is how we get engaged, what will our marriage be like?”