'My dear child, you're making a mountain out of a molehill. People mustn't worry about trifles. Just before the war I won a lot of money at Monte Carlo. I simply don't know what to do with it. Stop!' he said, as she began to speak. 'You want a hundred and ten pounds. You shall have it in half-an-hour. I shall go straight back to Claridge's in a taxi, write a cheque, get it changed--for you won't know what to do with a cheque, or at any rate it would give you more trouble--and send you the money straight back by my servant or my secretary in a taxi.' He stood up. 'Not another word, my dear Miss Clay. Don't attach so much importance to money. It would be a bore for you to have to bother Lady Conroy. I understand. Don't imagine you're under any obligation; you can pay it me back just whenever you like and I shall give it to the War Emergency Concerts.... Now, _please_, don't be grateful. Aren't we friends?' 'You're too kind,' she answered. He hurried to the door. 'When my secretary comes back she will ask to see you. If anyone knows you have a visitor say I sent you the music or tickets for the concert. Good-bye. Cheer up now!' In an hour from the time Valdez had come in to see her, father and stepmother had each received the money. The situation was saved. * * * * * Dulcie marvelled at the action and the manner in which it was done. But none who knew Valdez well would have been in the least surprised. He was the most generous of men, and particularly he could not bear to see a pretty girl in sincere distress through no fault of her own. It was Dulcie's simple sincerity that pleased him. He came across very little of it in his own world. That world was brilliant, distinguished, sometimes artistic, sometimes merely _mondain_. But it was seldom sincere. He liked that quality best of all. He certainly was gifted with it himself. * * * * * From this time, though Valdez still encouraged Dulcie to sing and occasionally accompanied her, the slight tinge of flirtation vanished from his manner. She felt he was only a friend. Did she ever regret it? Perhaps, a little. CHAPTER XXIX 'Bruce, said Edith, 'I've just had a letter from Aylmer, from Eastcliff.' 'Oh yes,' said Bruce. 'Got him off to the seaside at last, did they?' It was a Sunday afternoon. Bruce was sitting in a melancholy attitude on a sofa in Edith's boudoir; he held _The Weekly Dispatch_ in his hand, and was shaking his head over a pessimistic article when his wife came in.