'I believe he can,' said Tommy, with the air of offering a hardy conjecture. 'I know he can't, or of course he would. Do you intend to tell me that Airey--Airey of all men--is mean?' 'Oh, no, I--I don't say----' 'It's you that's mean! I never knew you do such a thing before. You've quite spoilt my pleasure this evening.' She looked at him sternly. 'I don't like you at all to-night. I'm very grievously disappointed in you.' Temptation raged in Tommy Trent; he held it down manfully. 'Well, I don't suppose he'll give the dinner, anyhow,' he remarked morosely. 'No, because he can't; but you'll have made him feel miserable about it. What time is it? I think I shall go home.' 'Look here, Peggy; you aren't doing me justice.' 'Well, what have you got to say?' Tommy, smoking for a moment or two, looked across at her and answered, 'Nothing.' She rose and handed him her purse. 'Pay the bill, please, and mind you give the waiter half-a-crown. And ask him to call me a cab, please.' 'It's only half a mile, and it's quite fine.' 'A rubber-tired hansom, please, with a good horse.' Tommy put her into the cab and looked as if he would like to get in too. The cabman, generalising from observed cases, held the reins out of the way, that Tommy's tall hat might mount in safety. 'Tell him where to go, please. Good-night,' said Peggy. Tommy was left on the pavement. He walked slowly along to his club, too upset to think of having a cigar. 'Very well,' he remarked, as he reached his destination. 'I played fair, but old Airey shall give that dinner--I'm hanged if he sha'n't!--and do it as if he liked it too!' A vicious chuckle surprised the hall-porter as Tommy passed within the precincts. Peggy drove home, determined to speak plainly to Airey himself; that was the only way to put it right. 'He shall know that I do him justice, anyhow,' said she. Thanks to the cheque, she was feeling as the rich feel, or should feel, towards those who have helped them in early days of struggle; she experienced a generous glow and meditated delicate benevolence. At least the bread-and-butter must be recouped an hundredfold. So great is the virtue of twenty pounds, if only they happen to be sent to the right address. Most money, however, seems to go astray. CHAPTER IV 'FROM THE MIDST OF THE WHIRL' 'Really I must congratulate you on your latest, Sarah,' remarked Lady Blixworth, who was taking tea with Mrs. Bonfill. 'Trix Trevalla is carrying everything before her. The Glentorlys have had her to meet Lord Farringham, and he was delighted. The men adore her, and they do say women like her. All done in six weeks! You're a genius!' Mrs. Bonfill made a deprecatory gesture of a _Non nobis_ order. Her friend insisted amiably: 'Oh, yes, you are. You choose so well. You never make a mistake. Now do tell me what's going to happen. Does Mortimer Mervyn mean it? Of course she wouldn't hesitate.' Mrs. Bonfill looked at her volatile friend with a good-humoured distrust.