It was not until much later that she divined something of the relations between these two. Sons of a well-to-do manufacturer, they had both “received advantages” in the way of education and so forth, but while Horace remained immutably the son of a wealthy manufacturer who had had “advantages,” Lionel in some mysterious way, not unusual in this world, had turned out to be aristocratic, elegant, fashionable. His brother took a naïve pride in this; he admired Lionel as he did royalty, not very useful, but immensely valuable in his place. He never urged him to go into business; he was quite satisfied that he should go his own dazzling way. For Horace was not the classic business man of stage and story, who despises and berates the idler; he was something much newer, the money-maker who is apologetic and secretly bewildered; who feels called upon to justify his activity. Lionel was what he would have liked to be, only that he knew it to be impossible. He acknowledged that they were of different clay. He told Frankie how Lionel had no idea of time, and was always late. How he kept the most exclusive people waiting for him and never had a proper excuse. How he spent preposterous sums on handkerchiefs, his hobby. How altogether idle and rude and popular he had been “at home.” In spite of her common-sense, Frankie began to feel that the attentions of such a man were something to boast of, to treasure. He wasn’t rude to her, ever. After a fourth cocktail and a minute sardine sandwich, Horace said he was obliged to go. “Au revoir!” he said to Frankie, with a very bad accent. “If this boy gives you any trouble, you let me know, eh?” He clasped her hand in his warm, moist one with genuine good-will, slapped Lionel on the shoulder, and went out, edging his way clumsily among the little low tables. Lionel gave a sigh of comfort, and leaned across the table. “May I have another cup?” he asked. Frances was looking at him sternly. “Mr. Naylor!” she said, “You have given your brother a false impression.” He was startled. “I ... so it seems,” he said, weakly, “I ... he _does_ seem....” “It isn’t fair,” she went on, “I’m surprised at you! What could _I_ do? Or say? Mr. Naylor, really, it was _not_ right of you!” “I know it.... But I give you my word I never exactly said--anything. I dare say I was--oh, enthusiastic.... I suppose he drew his own conclusions.” He went on, after a pause: “I did talk a lot about you.... You see----” He tapped his cigarette nervously on his plate. “I say!” he said. “Couldn’t it be true, you know?” She understood him well enough, and a bright colour surged into her face. “What?” she asked, disingenuously. “I mean--what Horace thinks.... I mean--do you think you _could_----” She faltered. “I don’t know.... It’s been such a short time----”