"You are? What on earth for?"

"I've jolly well got to do something," said Hornby with momentary gloom,
"and I think farming's about the best thing I can do. One gets a lot of
shooting and riding yon know. And then there are tennis parties and
dances. And you make a pot of money, there's no doubt about that."

"But I thought you were in some motor business in London."

"Well, I was, in a way. But--I thought you'd have heard about it.
Mother's been telling everybody. Governor won't speak to me. Altogether,
things are rotten. I want to get out of this beastly country as quick as
I can."

"Would you like me to give you the letter at once?" said Nora, going
over to an escritoire that stood near the window.

"I wish you would. Fact is," he went on, addressing no one in
particular, as Nora was already deep in her letter and Miss Pringle,
having exhausted the possibilities of the rug, was gazing stonily into
space, "I'm broke. I was all right as long as I stuck to bridge; I used
to make money on that. Over a thousand a year."

"What!"

Horror was stronger than Miss Pringle's resolution to take no further
part in the conversation with this extraordinary and apparently
unprincipled young man.