“Under the circumstances,” said Mrs. Pallitson, promptly, “I think you might help Mr. Chermbacon to choose a nice early train back to town. There’s one that goes before lunch, and I expect his valet could get the packing act done in something under twenty minutes.”

Mrs. Duff-Chubleigh rose in silence, went to the door, and carefully closed it. Then she spoke slowly and impressively, with the air of a minister who is asking an economically-minded Parliament for an increased Navy vote.

“Bobbie Chermbacon is rich, quite rich, and one day he will be very much richer. His aunt can buy motorcars as we might buy theatre-tickets, and he will be her chief heir. I am getting on in years, though I may not look it.”

“You don’t,” Mrs. Pallitson assured her.