'Anything, anything! You must have some more hats.' 'I don't want any more hats. I want to go with you on Lord Mountry's yacht to the Riviera.' 'Of course,' said Mrs Ford after a slight pause, 'it isn't my party, you know, dear.' 'No. But you can work me in, darling.' 'It's quite a small party. Very quiet.' 'Crowds bore me. I enjoy quiet.' Mrs Ford capitulated. 'I fancy you are doing me a very good turn,' she said. 'You must certainly come on the yacht.' 'I'll tell Peter to come straight round here now,' said Cynthia simply. She went to the telephone. Part Two In which other interested parties, notably one Buck MacGinnis and a trade rival, Smooth Sam Fisher, make other plans for the Nugget's future. Of stirring times at a private school for young gentlemen. Of stratagems, spoils, and alarms by night. Of journeys ending in lovers' meetings. The whole related by Mr Peter Burns, gentleman of leisure, who forfeits that leisure in a good cause. Peter Burns's Narrative Chapter 1 I I am strongly of the opinion that, after the age of twenty-one, a man ought not to be out of bed and awake at four in the morning. The hour breeds thought. At twenty-one, life being all future, it may be examined with impunity. But, at thirty, having become an uncomfortable mixture of future and past, it is a thing to be looked at only when the sun is high and the world full of warmth and optimism. This thought came to me as I returned to my rooms after the Fletchers' ball. The dawn was breaking as I let myself in. The air was heavy with the peculiar desolation of a London winter morning. The houses looked dead and untenanted. A cart rumbled past, and across the grey street a dingy black cat, moving furtively along the pavement, gave an additional touch of forlornness to the scene. I shivered. I was tired and hungry, and the reaction after the emotions of the night had left me dispirited. I was engaged to be married. An hour back I had proposed to Cynthia Drassilis. And I can honestly say that it had come as a great surprise to me. Why had I done it? Did I love her? It was so difficult to analyse love: and perhaps the mere fact that I was attempting the task was an answer to the question. Certainly I had never tried to do so five years ago when I had loved Audrey Blake. I had let myself be carried on from day to day in a sort of trance, content to be utterly happy, without dissecting my happiness. But I was five years younger then, and Audrey was--Audrey. I must explain Audrey, for she in her turn explains Cynthia.