"By marrying her money, you mean to say? I see, we Americans aren't the only mercenary nation in the world, though we get the credit for it sometimes. Well! I'll wait a while, before I judge. There comes a time in most men's lives when they forget their fine principles, and see just one thing ahead, _and they've got to have it_! Everything else goes down like ninepins, even if it's a real stately old mother, with her hair fixed-up like Marie Antoinette. We'll wait and see if that time comes along for Mr Greville!" Guest's lip twitched with amusement. "You seem to be very experienced on the subject." "I am so. I've seen quite a good deal of life," said Cornelia, with the air of a female Methuselah. She did not smirk nor giggle at the insinuation, but accepted it placidly as a matter of course, an occurrence of everyday happening. Guest studied her critically, as she gazed out of the window. Was she plain, or beautiful? It was difficult to say. The colourless complexion, and sharply pointed nose were serious blemishes, but the mouth was exquisite, and the hair a marvel. How Rossetti would have gloried in painting it, unbound, with the great red-gold waves floating over her shoulders! The eyes were good, too, despite their unusual colour--the colour of a tawny old sherry! As though attracted by his scrutiny, Cornelia turned her head, and let the golden eyes dwell thoughtfully upon his face. "Does Mr Greville do anything?" she inquired. "Has he any sort of occupation in life?" "He has a certain amount of business in connection with the property, but the agent does most of that. He hunts, of course, and shoots--he's a capital shot--and fishes at odd times. All the ordinary things that a man does." "Is that so? They wouldn't be ordinary with us. I like a man to work. _You've_ got to work hard, I suppose? You're a soldier." The quick pucker of lips and brows were almost startlingly eloquent of pain. "Not now! I was." "You retired?" "Yes." "Why?" Rupert Guest looked across the carriage in silence. At any time he was haughtily resentful of curiosity; but on this subject most of all he could not endure to speak with his most intimate friends. His first impulse was to ignore the question, but as he met Cornelia's steady eyes that impulse underwent an extraordinary reversion. Incredible as it might appear, he became conscious that it was not only possible that he could tell this girl, this stranger, the hidden sorrow of his life, but that he actually wished to tell it! He wanted to hear what she would say; to see how she would look. Those childlike eyes would look very beautiful, softened with the light of sympathy and consolation. He wanted to see that light shining for his sake.