childhood. The contrast had not been wholly to the advantage of the
nabob; though, to be sure, he was simply arrayed--as if, indeed, he
were not worth a thousand a year. Certainly he had about him a sense
of power, but his occasional laugh was too vigorous for one whose own
great sense of humour was conveyed by an infectious, rippling murmur
delightful to hear.

Rudyard Byng was worth three millions of pounds, and that she
interested him was evident by the sudden arrest of his look and his
movements when introduced to her. Ian Stafford had noted this look;
but he had seen many another man look at Jasmine Grenfel with just as
much natural and unbidden interest, and he shrugged the shoulders of
his mind; for the millions alone would not influence her, that was
sure. Had she not a comfortable fortune of her own? Besides, Byng was
not the kind of man to capture Jasmine's fastidious sense and
nature. So much had happened between Jasmine and himself, so deep an
understanding had grown up between them, that it only remained to
bring her to the last court of inquiry and get reply to a vital
question--already put in a thousand ways and answered to his perfect
satisfaction. Indeed, there was between Jasmine and himself the
equivalent of a betrothal. He had asked her to marry him, and she had
not said no; but she had bargained for time to "prepare"; that she
should have another year in which to be gay in a gay world and, in her
own words, "walk the primrose path of pleasure untrammelled and alone,
save for my dear friend Mrs. Grundy."

Since that moment he had been quite sure that all was well. And now
the year was nearly up, and she had not changed; had, indeed, grown
more confiding and delicately dependent in manner towards him, though
seeing him but seldom alone.