“That doesn’t matter,” she replied calmly, “you do want me, don’t you?” And before her horrified father and her promised husband, Alphonso took her in his arms and hugged her. It was an awkward journey back to town. Sir Ralph sat by himself and rejected all Lord Flanborough’s attempts to discuss the matter. He was hurt in his pride and, if the truth be told, hurt in his pocket because an alliance with the family meant a considerable addition to his fortune. It is a mistake to believe that rich people do not care for money or that a man with two millions is wholly indifferent as to whether he has two or three. Indeed, the reverse is the case. The man who thinks in thousands is indifferent to a figure or two, the man who counts his fortune in shillings seldom knows the number of shillings he has. Only your two-millionaire realizes the full value of money. The thrift of the millionaire might well serve as an example to the improvident poor. “I shall speak to Moya when we get home,” said Lord Flanborough. “I have never been so distressed at anything so much in my life. It is disgraceful, Ralph.” But Ralph did not encourage sympathy. As a matter of fact, his lordship spoke to the girl before the special ran into London Street Station. It required some courage on his part, for it meant intruding upon the couple in the little stateroom which ordinarily served as a sleeping apartment when Sir Ralph’s private coach carried him on night journeys. He found them a picture of decorum sitting rigidly bolt upright, one on either side of the carriage, looking out of the window with fine unconcern; but this attitude was probably due to the fact that the door of the compartment made a very loud rattling noise when the handle was turned. “I want to speak to you alone, Moya.” “Run away, Fonso,” said the girl with a gaiety out of harmony with her rigidity of attitude. Alphonso stepped out of the saloon and closed the sliding door behind him. “Now, Moya,” said his lordship with a badly simulated air of friendliness, “perhaps you will explain?” “Why I am going to marry Fonso?” she asked, “because I love him. Why do you think that I should be marrying him?” “This sounds very much like Michael. It is the way he would talk,” said Lord Flanborough bitterly. “This shows the danger of letting your children associate with irregular people. You know very well that you are engaged to Sir Ralph.” “I know he gave me a ring and we agreed to get married,” she said, “but I have changed my mind.” “But you _can’t_ change your mind,” stormed her father; “it is impossible that my daughter should marry a wretched artist.” “He’s not wretched and he is not an artist,” said the girl; “we have both agreed that he is not an artist and he is going to find something useful to do.” “If you marry this man,” he pointed a trembling finger at her, “I will not receive you as my daughter.” “I don’t want to be received at all. You married whom you wanted to marry, didn’t you?”