He had not been as much at home with the others.
The Honourable Balder, of course, didn't count; nobody paid
attention to him, and least of all a busy Rubber King.
He gave not much more heed to the American--the tall
young woman with the red hair and the million and a half
of dollars. She was plainly a visitor like himself,
not at all identified with the inner life of the household.
He fancied, moreover, that she in no way desired to be
thus identified. She seemed to carry herself with a
deliberate aloofness underlying her surface amiability.
Then he had spoken his few words with her, once or twice,
he had got this effect of stony reserve close beneath
her smile and smooth words. True, this might mean only
that she felt herself out of her element, just as he
did--but to him, really it did not matter what she felt.
A year ago--why, yes, even a fortnight ago--the golden
rumour of millions would have shone round her auburn hair
in his eyes like a halo. But all that was changed.
Calculated in a solidified currency, her reported fortune
shrank to a mere three hundred thousand pounds. It was
a respectable sum for a woman to have, no doubt, but it
did nothing to quicken the cool indifference with which he
considered her.
The two other young women were different. They were seated
together on a sofa, so placed as regarded his point of view,
that he saw only in part the shadowed profiles of the faces
they turned toward the piano.
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