But Gwyllian held him by the lappet of his coat. “They do say,” he whispered, “that she’s almost given it to him. You must know. Now do be frank, Ronnie.” “Frankness does not necessitate the discussion of other people’s affairs. Ask Roxhall’s wife; she is at Cowes; or go in and ask Miss Massarene; you know her.” He disengaged himself with some difficulty from the clinging hold of Gwyllian’s white wrinkled fingers, and went onward to the station to go to Southampton, where his yawl was awaiting him. Daddy looked at the gate of the villa. Should he ring? No, he thought not. She was an unpleasant woman to tackle, hedgehoggy and impenetrable; she would be capable of saying to him, as Hurstmanceaux had done, that Roxhall’s affairs were no business of his. She was one of those unnatural and offensive persons who, having no curiosity themselves, regard curiosity in others without sympathy, and even with disapproval. Daddy, feeling ill-used and aggrieved, turned down a lane bordered by rhododendrons and eucalyptus, and went to lunch with his sick friend, to whom he imparted _sotto voce_ the fact that he thought Ronald would come round and marry Miss Massarene. “He’s always been such a crank,” added Daddy. “But he’s begun to sell. That looks like coming to his senses--doing like other people.” “It is certainly doing like many other people,” said his sick friend with a sad smile, for he had seen his own collections go to the hammer. When Gwyllian, a few hours later, went comfortably back over the water in a steam-launch to East Cowes, he reflected as he glided along on what he had heard. Being a sagacious person, he connected the sale of the Faldon pictures with the visit to Katherine Massarene. “He’s either paying some debt of his sister’s or he’s helping Roxhall to buy back the place. He’s such a confounded fool, he’d give his head away; and I dare say the young woman is sharp about money; wouldn’t be her father’s daughter if she wasn’t.” So he came very nearly to the truth in his own mind as he sat in the launch, whilst it wound in and out among the craft in the roads. It was no business of his, but Daddy Gwyllian had always found that guessing what hands other people held was the most amusing way of playing the rubber of life; at least, when you are old, and only a looker-on at the tables.