Wolf’s heart was now beating fast. “I shall have the two hundred,” he thought. “I shall have the two hundred!” He became aware that the vision of himself handing over this cheque to his mother was melting now into a vague, delicious sweetness that had nothing to do with either Mrs. Solent or with Mr. Urquhart. It hung quivering⁠—this drop of maddening sweetness⁠—on the edge of those words of Christie’s, “He will stay the night at Weymouth!”

“I’m not a rich man, Solent. You know that , I suppose?”

Wolf nodded sympathetically; but he caught no more than the general drift of his companion’s words, as the Squire rambled on.