"Bill," she said, "keep perfectly quiet, or I shall send you off to meet Lady Adela’s train at Waterloo! I want to talk to Dicky. Now, Dicky, listen to me. That little girl"--Connie’s eyes grew suddenly tender, for she loved her sex--"cares for you, old man--quite a lot. Quite enough, in fact, to draw back if she thinks she is going to stand in your way during life. That pathetic little fraud of a tea-party yesterday has set her thinking. She has suddenly realised that although she might _get_ you by false pretences, she could not _keep_ you by false pretences--nor want to. She has also realised that her Family are impossible. That means that she will have to give up either you or the Family. And you are the one she will give up, Dicky. She loves you too much to pull you down to their level. She won’t give that as her reason--women are built like that--but she will give you up, all the same." The usually placid Dicky had grown excessively agitated during this homily. "Connie," he burst out, "for goodness’ sake don’t try to frighten me like that! Tilly’s Family are not impossible. They ’re only a bit improbable. And besides, talking of impossible families, look at mine! Do you know who my grandfather was? He was a Lancashire cotton operative--a hand in a mill. He invented something--a shuttle, or a bobbin, or something of that kind--and made a fortune out of it. He ultimately died worth a hundred thousand pounds; but to the end of his days he dined without his coat, and, if he could possibly escape detection, without his collar either. I never saw him, but my Dad says he was a dear old chap, and I can quite believe it. As a father-in-law he was a sore trial to my poor mother, whose ancestors had worn their collars at meals for quite a considerable period; but the hundred thousand overcame her susceptibilities in the end, and she and Dad have lived happily ever since." Dicky rose restlessly to his feet, and continued his address standing. "Now I think," he said, "that we can set my grandfather, cotton operative, against the late lamented Banks, plumber and gas-fitter. Banks, of course, was the bigger man socially--you know how plumbers get asked simply _everywhere_--but Mainwaring’s son married the daughter of an Earl; so we will call them quits. Anyway, Tilly is quite as good as I am--miles better, in fact." "Dear Dicky!" murmured Connie approvingly. Here was a lover of the right metal. "What about friend Perce?" enquired a gruff voice. It was a telling question. If Dicky could clothe such an uncompromising fact as Percy Welwyn in a garment of romance, he was capable of making a success of any marriage. Mr. Carmyle waited grimly for his answer. "Ah--Percy!" replied Dicky thoughtfully. "Yes, Tiny, old soul, that’s a sound question. Well, Percy is n’t exactly polished--in fact, one might almost be forgiven for describing him as a holy terror--" "He wants losing," said Carmyle with conviction.