Not a word did Leslie say about her interview with Gilder, and her brother seemed just as anxious to avoid the topic as she. They drove down from town, and all the time he kept up a ceaseless flow of talk about affairs which he thought might interest her. He was nervous, and once, when she woke him from a reverie with a question, he started and turned red.

“Sorry!” he stammered. “I was thinking of something.”

“And something unpleasant, Arthur,” she said gently.

He was staring straight ahead of him.

“Yes, something damnably unpleasant!”

They were nearing Chelfordbury now, and she put the question that had trembled on her lips throughout that long journey.

“Arthur, do you know what Mr Gilder asked me?” And, when he did not reply: “He proposed to me,” she said.

Still he avoided her eyes.

“Did he?” he asked awkwardly. “Well, that’s an extraordinary thing for him to do!”

“Arthur, did you know he was going to propose to me when you left us alone?”

“He isn’t a bad fellow,” said Arthur Gine lamely. “Of course the idea is preposterous. But, after all, it is no sin for a fellow to fall in love with a girl and want to marry her – I mean, one can see his point of view.”

Leslie was a little shocked; she was more than a little angry. But she kept a tight rein on her tongue.

“But, Arthur, you wouldn’t agree to that? You know I am engaged to Harry. Why, you told me that it was the dream of your life to see me wearing a coronet! Not that I want to wear the beastly thing, but that was what you said.”

Ordinarily, Arthur Gine was possessed of a ready tongue and a nimble wit. He had lied his way out of many an embarrassing situation with more worldly-wise people than Leslie. But, somehow, in her presence his brain refused to function, and his witticisms were banal and vulgar even to himself.

“My dear little girl,” he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness, “it really doesn’t matter to me whom you marry so long as you’re happy. Gilder is a very solid man; he has a considerable private fortune.”

This time she swung round on her seat and faced him.

“Arthur, why do you insist upon the fortune? Where is my money?”

The question came point-blank and was not to be fenced with. He roused himself to meet a situation which had never before arisen.

“Your money? Why, invested, of course!”

He tried very hard, but he could not produce that convincing note which was so necessary.

“Your fortune is in all sorts of shares and bonds. What a queer question to ask me, girlie!”

“How much money have I?” she demanded ruthlessly.

“About a quarter of a million – a little more or a little less. For goodness’ sake don’t talk about money, my dear.”