She left him a little impatiently, and Aynesworth joined the outside of the circle of men who had gathered round Wingrave. He was answering their questions readily enough, if a little laconically. He was quite aware that he occupied in society the one unique place to which princes might not even aspire--there was something of divinity about his millions, something of awe in the tone of the men with whom he talked. Women pretended to be interested in him because of the romance of his suddenly acquired wealth--the men did not trouble to deceive themselves or anyone else. A break up of the group came when a certain great and much-talked-about lady sent across an imperative message by her cavalier for the moment. She desired that Mr. Wingrave should be presented to her. They passed down the room together a few moments later, the Marchioness wonderfully dressed in a gown of strange turquoise blue, looking up at her companion, and talking with somewhat unusual animation. Everyone made remarks, of course--exchanged significant glances and unlovely smiles. It was so like the Marchioness to claim, as a matter of course, the best of everything that was going. Lady Ruth watched them with a curious sense of irritation for which she could not altogether account. It was impossible that she should be jealous, and yet it was equally certain that she was annoyed. If Wingrave resisted his present fair captor, he would enjoy a notability equal to that which his wealth already conferred upon him. No man as yet had done it. Was it likely that Wingrave would wear two crowns? Lady Ruth beckoned Aynesworth to her. “Tell me,” she said, “what is Mr. Wingrave’s general attitude towards my sex?” “Absolute indifference,” he declared promptly, “unless--” He stopped short. “You must go on,” she told him. “Unless he is possessed of the ability to make them suffer,” he answered after a moment’s hesitation. “Then Emily will never attract him,” she declared almost triumphantly, “for she has no more heart that he has.” “He has yet to discover it,” Aynesworth remarked. “When he does, I think you will find that he will shrug his shoulders--and say farewell.” “All the same,” Lady Ruth murmured to herself, “Emily is a cat.” Lady Ruth spoke to one more man that night of Wingrave--and that man was her husband. Their guests had departed, and Lady Ruth, in a marvelous white dressing gown, was lying upon the sofa in her room. “How do you get on with Wingrave?” she asked. “What do you think of him?” Barrington shrugged his shoulders.