e had set his heart on
providing her with influential guidance on the threshold of a new life;
and it was important that she should not begin criticizing his motives.

By the time dinner was over Constance Annesley-Seton had decided that the
Nelson Smiths had been sent to her by the Powers that Be, and that it
would be tempting Providence not to annex them. Not that she put it in
that way to herself, for she did not trouble her mind about Providence.
All she knew was that she and Dick would be fools to let the chance slip.

It was as much as she could do not to suggest the idea in her mind: that
the Nelson Smiths should take the house in Portman Square; that she and
her husband should introduce them to society, and that the Devonshire
place should either be let to them or that they should visit there when
they wished to be in the country, as paying guests.

But she controlled her impatience, limiting herself to proposing plans
for future meetings. She suggested giving a dinner in honour of the bride
and bridegroom, and inviting people whom it would be "nice for them to
know" in town.

Knight said that he and "Anita" (his new name for Annesley, a souvenir
of Spanish South America) would accept with pleasure. And the girl agreed
gladly, because she thought her cousin and his wife were very kind.

After dinner Annesley-Seton and Knight followed Constance and "Anita"
almost directly, the former asking his guests if they would like to see
some of the family treasures which they could only have glanced at in
passing with the crowd the other day.

"Before sugar went to smash, we blazed into all sorts of extravagances
here," he said, bitterly, with a glance at the deposed Sugar King's
daughter. "Among others, putting electric light into this old barn. We'll
have an illumination, and show you some trifles Connie and I wish to
Heaven a kind-hearted burglar would relieve us of.

"Of course the beastly things are heirlooms, as I suppose you know. We
can't sell or pawn them, or I should have done one or the other long ago.
They're insured by the trustees, who are the bane of our lives, for the
estate. But a sporting sort of company has blossomed out lately, which
insures against 'loss of use'--I think that's the expression. I pay the
premium myself--even when I can't pay anything else!--and if the valuable
contents of this place are stolen or burned, we shall benefit personally.

"I don't mind you or all the world knowing we'