Sir John chuckled till his great form shook--he had grown very stout
of late years.

"I think you are sharp enough to answer that question for yourself. I
have observed, Isobel, that you know as much of the world as most
young girls of your age."

"So you bought the thing," she exclaimed with a flash of her grey
eyes. "I thought that honours were given because they were earned."

"Did you?" said Sir John, chuckling again. "Well, now you know better.
Look here, Isobel, don't be a fool. Honours, or most of them, like
other things, are for those who can pay for them in this way or that.
Nobody bothers how they come so long as they /do/ come. Now, listen.
Unfortunately, as a girl, you can't inherit this title. But it doesn't
matter much, since it will be easy for you to get one for yourself."

Isobel turned red and uttered an exclamation, but enjoining silence on
her with a wave of his fat hand, her father went on:

"I haven't done so badly, my dear, considering my chances. I don't
mind telling you that I am a rich man now, indeed a very rich man as
things go, and I shall be much richer, for nothing pays like ships,
especially if you man them with foreign crews. Also I am a Bart," and
he pointed to the pile of newspapers on the floor, "and if my Party
gets in again, before long I shall be a Lord, which would make you an
Honourable. Anyway, my girl, although you ain't exactly a beauty,"
here he considered her with a critical eye, "you'll make a fine figure
of a woman and with your money, you should be able to get any husband
you like. What's more," and he banged his fist upon the table, "I