A gasp came from the company. Never in the history of the club had anything like that happened.

"You liar!" snapped Meredith.

Jim's hand came out. His fingers buried themselves in Meredith's shoulder, till the pale face winced with pain. His great body tightened up and his eyes were like cold steel. No one had ever called him "liar" before. It aroused all the innate fury within him. The other hand was drawn back to strike--and then he remembered. He gave an almost pitiful grunt and released his grip. Cholmondeley and a few others dragged him away.

"Conlan," said Claude, "you oughtn't to have said that. It isn't done."

"There's no way out," whispered Cholmondeley. "You'll have to apologize."

A dapper little man, a bosom friend of Meredith's, hurried forward, bristling with indignation.

"You have grossly insulted a member of this club, sir. We demand an apology," he said.

"Better apologize," whispered Claude.

Jim was trying to be a "gentleman," but the word "liar" from the lips of a card-sharp had pierced the thin veneer that a few months of sophisticated environment had brought about, and scratched into the coa.r.s.er material beneath. Restraint went to the winds.

"Apologize!" he roared. "Apologize to a swindling tinhorn? I should smile!"

CHAPTER IV

ANGELA

The Featherstones were a remarkable family--remarkable in their unparalleled irresponsibility. They had a house in Grosvenor Place and another in Devonshire. The latter, like the Featherstones, was gorgeous in its external aspect, but thoroughly unstable in its foundations. The instability of Lord Featherstone was of a financial character. He, like the rest of his family, believed in giving a wide berth to such sordid considerations as money. Whenever he wanted money he called in the family solicitor, who promptly raised another mortgage on something.

Featherstone was so used to signing his name on pieces of paper that custom grew into habit. Lady Featherstone still gave expensive house parties, and the Honorable Angela acted as though all the wealth of the Indies was behind those magic signatures of papa.

Young Claude, with a liberal allowance per annum, managed to wring a few thousands overdraft from his banker by dint of a plausible tongue and a charm of manner. When the crash came and Featherstone was forced to face realities, the house was like a mortuary.

"But surely you can raise the wind, my dear Ayscough?"

The aged solicitor, an intimate friend of the family, shook his head.

"There's Little Badholme."

"Mortgaged to the last penny. It was never worth the ten thousand they advanced."

Featherstone paced up and down and blew rings of smoke into the air.

"We shall have to economize, my dear Ayscough. We shall have to economize."

He had said that so many times before, that like the production of his autograph it had become a habit. Ayscough, seeing Carey Street looming in the distance, was unusually glum. Economy was scarcely an antidote at this stage, for mortgagees were threatening foreclosure.

"I rely upon you, Ayscough. I rely on you absolutely."

Ayscough looked blank. It was no use trying to explain to Featherstone the exact state of the family's finance. Generations of Featherstones had eaten well into the coffers. Prodigality was their outstanding characteristic.

"If I might make a suggestion----"

Featherstone was in the mood to consider the wildest suggestion. He had none of his own.

"There is--er--Miss Angela."

"There is, Ayscough. Precisely--there is." Then he suddenly halted and looked at the lawyer. "By Jove! I see your point. But it won't avail us.

Angela is a queer girl. She has distinct aversions to marriage."

"But if she knew that a wealthy--er--fortunate marriage would save you and Lady Featherstone a certain amount of anxiety----?"

"I doubt it. Besides, wealthy husbands are not so easily picked up. There are a dozen girls after every man of ample means. No, I think we may discard that possibility. Think it over, my dear Ayscough. I leave it entirely in your hands."

Ayscough had been thinking it over for the last three years. He went away with visions of the fall of the house of Featherstone at no very distant date.

At that moment the Honorable Angela was busily engaged sending out invitations to a dinner party. She was two years older than Claude, a typical Featherstone, fair and straight of limb, with finely chiseled features and delicate complexion. Her eyes were large and long-lashed, but somewhat cold. A life of indolence and luxury had bred a certain air of imperiousness in her. She was known to her friends as Angela the frigid.

But this appellation was not quite justified. At times she was far from frigid. Under different circ.u.mstances she might have been as warm-blooded as any Southern peasant-girl, but pride of birth and breeding had dampered down most of the natural emotions. She was exquisite in every physical detail.

She had almost finished her list of invitations when Claude burst into the library. She turned her head for a second and went on writing. He strode up to the table and began to read the cards.

"Please go away, Claude. Don't touch them. They're still wet."

"Great heavens! You aren't asking Mrs. Carruthers!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.

"Why not?"

"She's simply impossible. Angela, take her off the list."

"This is mother's list, not mine."

"But that woman--Angela, she isn't proper."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, you know."

"I don't."

"Well, ask any of her friends. Oh, by the way, I want one of those cards.

Thanks!"

He took one, to her great annoyance, and then asked for a pen. She gave it to him with a little sigh. He filled in the blank card and read it with a grin.

"Mother will be annoyed if you send out invitations without consulting her."

"I'll tell her when I've posted it. It's to a fellow I know very well."