"Pardon my contradicting you, but, thinking that you have but five hundred a year, and knowing your luxurious tastes, Miss Monk denies herself all, save the necessaries of life, so that you may have more money to spend. Did she know you were a millionaire----" "I am not a millionaire," said Monk, snapping for the first time, as hitherto he had kept his temper in a most aggravating manner. "I understood Lady Denham to say that you were," I reminded him politely. "Like all women, Lady Denham exaggerates. I have a good many thousands, but I cannot call myself a millionaire." "And the house in the country----" "In Essex, remember. That is true enough." "Oh, yes, though it can hardly be called an estate. But the shooting-box in Scotland?" "I rented one last year for a time." "I see, you saved the situation in that way. And the villa at Nice?" "A friend of mine lends me his. I can ask anyone there." "And apparently intend to pass it off as your own." "No," he said, smiling graciously, "you are mistaken. It is true that I asked Lady Denham and Lady Mabel to Nice. I mentioned the villa, but I did not declare it was mine. They hastily concluded that it was." "From what you left unsaid, I presume. Well, and your change of name?" "That has to do with my money. A distant cousin of mine died three or four years ago in Australia and left me nearly one hundred thousand pounds on condition that I took his name. I complied with the necessity in a legal manner, without letting my daughter know, and now enjoy the money. I am quite rich enough to marry Lady Mabel if she will have me." "That may be. But when she learns that you have a daughter as old as she is, I doubt if she will accept you. Particularly, as----" "I know what you would say. Particularly as that Weston man loves her." "Not quite that, Mr. Marr. Particularly as she loves the Weston man. But may I ask why you keep your daughter in ignorance of your change of name and your possession of wealth?" "Listen," he said, throwing away his cigarette. "I inherit five hundred a year from my late brother--that is, as you say, I have a life interest in it. After my death it goes to Gertrude. As a matter of fact she enjoys it now, as it goes to keep up The Lodge at Burwain, and pay for her necessary needs. That she chooses to dress plainly and live plainly is not my fault. The money is to her hand when she wants it. Under these circumstances, since she has all she requires, I do not see why she need know that I live a different life in London, as she would not join me here if I offered to take her. On my part, I am a man still young, and I wish to marry again, since I am well off. Why, then, should I encumber myself with a grown-up daughter?" "I can't answer that question, as I don't quite follow your eminently selfish reasoning. But as it is I propose to take charge of your grown-up daughter. Then you can do what you like, so long as you don't marry Lady Mabel under false pretences."