“Of course, I got you up here,” said Major Villay. “Why not?” “But--” With recovery Gurdy had shed some sense of illusions. He stood thinking of his regiment rather sourly, rather sadly. The broker-major grunted, “Rot, Gurdy. You’re all Mark’s got--Son, and all that. Dare say Margot’ll marry some Englishman. Anyhow, it’s all over. Bulgaria’s on the skids. Mark thinks too much of you.” Gurdy was subtly pleased. He stood thinking of Mark fondly, with annotations in contempt. Mark was nothing but a big blunderer among the arts, a man who couldn’t see the strength of Russian drama or disillusioned comedy, who didn’t admire Granville Barker’s plays. But if Margot stayed in England Gurdy could steer his uncle toward proper productions. Mark meant well, very well. He had done some fine things, had a feeling for vesture, anyhow. “I see the Celebrities people have bought the Terriss Pictograph,” said Major Villay, “Exchange of stock. Funny. Mark hates the movies so and he makes twenty thousand a year out of them. And the movie people gave him fifteen thousand for that rotten Gail play. Here, take this stuff and translate it. I can probably get you a pass over to London if you want to see Margot.” Gurdy didn’t want to see her. His last view of Margot had been in the stress of her removal from Miss Thorne’s school. Mark had gone five times to England on visits of a month, reported her beautiful, witty, petted by Mrs. Ilden, by Mrs. Ilden’s friends. But he wrote her a note dutifully and got an answer in three lines. “Glad you are out of the silly mess. Try to run over. Frightfully rushed catching a train for Devon. More later.” He was not offended. He thought that Margot disliked him as he disliked her. He threw the note into the waste basket and went on translating French political comments into English.