There was something about him that Connie liked. He didn’t put on airs to himself; he had no illusions about himself. He talked to Clifford sensibly, briefly, practically about all the things Clifford wanted to know. He didn’t expand or let himself go. He knew he had been asked down to Wragby to be made use of, and like an old, shrewd, almost indifferent business man, or big-business man, he let himself be asked questions, and he answered with as little waste of feeling as possible.

“Money!” he said. “Money is a sort of instinct. It’s a sort of property of nature in a man to make money. It’s nothing you do. It’s no trick you play. It’s a sort of permanent accident of your own nature; once you start, you make money, and you go on; up to a point, I suppose.”

“But you’ve got to begin,” said Clifford.

“Oh quite! You’ve got to get in . You can do nothing if you are kept outside. You’ve got to beat your way in. Once you’ve done that, you can’t help it.”