“The same to you,” said the other cheerily. “Well, I just wanted to see you and catch you for a few minutes, old chap. I’m getting beastly sick of this place--we have been here nearly six weeks--I vote, as the policeman says, we ‘move on.’” “Move where?” was the laconic inquiry. “To Simla, to be sure! the club here is just a mere rowdy pot-house. I never saw such rotten polo! My best pony is lame--gone in the shoulder. I believe that little beggar Byng stuck me; and besides this, Miss Potter--the girl with the black eyes and twelve hundred a year--is going away.” “To Simla?” expressively. “Yes. She does not want to move, but the people she is with, the Athertons, are off, and of course she is bound to go with them. That girl likes me--she believes in me.” “Do you think she believes that you are what they call you here, a millionaire?” “What a grossly coarse way of putting it! Well, I should not be surprised if she did!” “Then if that is the case, don’t you think the sooner you undeceive her the better!” “Excellent high-minded youth! But why?” “Because it strikes me that we have played this little game long enough.” “And you languish for the good old board ship and Poonah days over again! Shall we publish who is really who, in the papers, and send a little ‘para’ to the _Pioneer_?” with angry sarcasm. “No; but don’t you see that when I took what you called a ‘back seat,’ I never supposed it would develop into a regular sort of society fraud, or lead us on to such an extent. I’m always on the point of blurting out something about money, and pulling myself up. If I speak the truth people will swear I am lying. I don’t mind their thinking me an insignificant, idle young ass; but when they talk before me of dire poverty, and then pause apologetically--when they positively refrain from asking me to subscribe to entertainments or charities--I tell you I don’t _like_ it. I am a rank impostor. There will be an awful explosion some day, if we don’t look out.” “A pleasant explosion for you. Surely you are not quite such a fool as to suppose that any one would think the worse of you because you are a rich man.” Mark’s thoughts wandered to Honor Gordon, and he made no answer. “We have gone too far to go back,” continued Waring, impressively, “at least as far as Shirani is concerned. We might shift our sky and go to Simla, and then after a time allow the truth to ooze out.” “I am desperately sorry I ever tampered with the truth,” cried the other, starting to his feet and beginning to walk about the verandah. “I have never told a direct lie, and no one has ever suspected _me_--I have not a rich air, nor the tastes of a wealthy man; now, you”--suddenly halting before Clarence, and looking him all over--“have both.”