“Nonsense!” snapped Tuppence. “Do I look the sort of girl that’s always falling in love with every man she meets?”

“You do not. You look the sort of girl that’s mighty often getting fallen in love with!”

“Oh!” said Tuppence, rather taken aback. “That’s a compliment, I suppose?”

“Sure. Now let’s get down to this. Supposing we never find Beresford and⁠—and⁠—”

“All right⁠—say it! I can face facts. Supposing he’s⁠—dead! Well?”

“And all this business fiddles out. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” said Tuppence forlornly.

“You’ll be darned lonesome, you poor kid.”

“I shall be all right,” snapped Tuppence with her usual resentment of any kind of pity.

“What about marriage?” inquired Julius. “Got any views on the subject?”

“I intend to marry, of course,” replied Tuppence. “That is, if”⁠—she paused, knew a momentary longing to draw back, and then stuck to her guns bravely⁠—“I can find someone rich enough to make it worth my while. That’s frank, isn’t it? I dare say you despise me for it.”

“I never despise business instinct,” said Julius. “What particular figure have you in mind?”

“Figure?” asked Tuppence, puzzled. “Do you mean tall or short?”

“No. Sum⁠—income.”

“Oh, I⁠—I haven’t quite worked that out.”

“What about me?”