the fact that I think I'm falling in love with somebody."

Molly McQuade turned sharply to look at her companion, who still
fixed his gaze on the pheasant run in front of him.

"Don't tell me you're losing your head over somebody useless,
someone without money," she said; "I don't think I could stand
that."

For the moment she feared that Courtenay's selfishness might have
taken an unexpected turn, in which ambition had given way to the
fancy of the hour; he might be going to sacrifice his Parliamentary
career for a life of stupid lounging in momentarily attractive
company. He quickly undeceived her.

"She's got heaps of money."

Molly gave a grunt of relief. Her affection for Courtenay had
produced the anxiety which underlay her first question; a natural
jealousy prompted the next one.

"Is she young and pretty and all that sort of thing, or is she just
a good sort with a sympathetic manner and nice eyes? As a rule
that's the kind that goes with a lot of money."

"Young and quite good-looking in her way, and a distinct style of
her own. Some people would call her beautiful. As a political
hostess I should think she'd be splendid. I imagine I'm rather in
love with her."