“Very likely not,” he responded. “I don’t want to be unpleasant; but most Englishmen work things out by the rule their fathers taught them, and not by native ingenuity. It is native wit that tells in the end, I’m thinking.” “Perhaps you are right,” she rejoined. “There must be a kind of genius in it.” Here her voice dropped a little lower. “I do not believe there are many Englishmen, even if they had your dollars--” “The dollars I had this morning,” he interposed. “--who could have so strongly impressed Gracia Raglan.” He looked thoughtfully on the ground; then raised his eyes to Lady Lawless, and said in a low, ringing tone: “Yes, I am going to do more than ‘impress’: I am going to convince her.” “When?” she asked. “To-morrow morning, I hope,” was the reply. “I believe I shall have my millions again.” “If you do,” she said slowly, “do you not think that you ought to run no more risks--for her sake?” “That is just what I mean to do, Lady Lawless. I’ll settle millions where they ought to be settled, drop Wall Street, and--go into training.” “Into training?” she asked. “Yes, for a house on the Hudson, a villa at Cannes, a residence in Grosvenor Square, and a place in Devonshire--or somewhere else. Then,” he added, with a twinkle in his eye, “I shall need a good deal of time to cultivate accent.” “Don’t!” she said. “You are much more charming as you are.” They passed into the drawing-room. “Are these things to be told?” she asked, with a little suggestion in her voice. “I can trust your discretion.” “Even in such circumstances?” she asked. She paused, with a motion of her fan back towards the room they had left. “You have taught him a lesson, Lady Lawless. It is rough on him; but he needs it.” “I hope he will do nothing rash,” she said. “Perhaps he’ll write some poetry, and refuse to consider his natural appetite.” “Will you go and see him now?” she asked. “Immediately. Good night, Lady Lawless.” His big hand swallowed hers in a firm, friendly clasp, and he shook it once or twice before he parted from her. He met Sir Duke Lawless in the doorway. They greeted cheerfully, and then Lawless came up to his wife. “Well, my dear,” he said, with an amused look in his face, “well, what news?” She lifted her eyebrows at him. “Something has happened, Molly, I can see it in your face.” She was very brief. “Gracia Raglan has been conquered; the young man from Boston has been foolish; and Mr. Vandewaters has lost millions.” “Eh? That’s awkward,” said Sir Duke. “Which?” asked his wife. Vandewaters found Mr. Pride in his bedroom, a waif of melancholy. He drew a chair up, lighted a cigar, eyed the young man from head to foot, and then said: “Pride, have you got any backbone? If you have, brace up. You are ruined. That’s about as mild as I can put it.” “You know all?”--said the young man helplessly, his hands clasped between his knees in aesthetic agony.