But that something, apart from the mere existence of the Marches, had annoyed him, was obvious; and presently I realised that the something was the fact that Iris had not let him know she was in London, but that he had heard of it from me, from any one, in fact, but herself. I ought instantly to have guessed that was the matter, Hilary being one of those detached men who have no use for the flibberty-gibberties of life. Gerald, one thought, would make about as pretty an Earl of Portairley and Axe as even the Marches could boast. “But at least,” I suggested, “he will have a little more money than he has now?” “About,” said Hilary, “minus five hundred a year. They can’t even bribe any one to take Portairley, and so the old gentleman has to live in a couple of rooms and pay the taxes on the property from what his creditors allow him. That old curse working, one would think....” There isn’t really a great variety among these family curses. There appear to be no more than two schools of thought among the cursers, one which consigns the cursed to instant death, and the other to prolonged disgrace ending in damnation. The Portairley’s curse was of the second variety, and poor Gerald appeared to be in at the death for the damnation. “Vaguely,” I said, “I gather that Gerald and his sister had some quarrel in the distant past. But I happened to see Gerald as I came on here, and he seemed ready for a reconciliation. In that case, as Mrs. Storm seems to be wealthy....” Certainly Hilary could surprise one. He exploded, in that quiet parliamentary way which is one of the loftiest dignities of a constitutional country: “And thank the Lord she is! Imagine the shoddy life of an Iris--with neither money nor morals!” Evidently, then, Hilary had a great regard for the lady of the green hat. You must remember that until this evening not so much as her name had passed between us.... “He will, if you provoke him,” Iris had said. Well, hadn’t I! Hector Storm V.C. had, it seemed, left her every penny. Storm, steel, Sheffield. “Fine boy, Storm,” said Hilary, pulling at a stiff grey thing which I forgot to mention he wore on his upper lip without, however, succeeding in looking anything but clean-shaven. “Boy Fenwick left her all he had too, but she wouldn’t, naturally, touch a penny of it. You would think the world was upside down when you came to inquire into the moral sense of an Iris! Strict as steel here, unbending as iron there--and then! She gave all Boy Fenwick’s fortune over to old Aunt Fenwick, since when the old hag has called Iris every name out of the Apocrypha for her pains.” “But, Hilary!” I said. Hilary says now that I was white in the face. “But did you say Boy Fenwick? Boy ... Fenwick?” “Her first husband,” said Hilary; and he pushed his port-glass an inch or two up the polished surface of the table and stared at it. “You couldn’t,” he said, “do better than young Fenwick.... But before your time, I suppose....”