It all seemed so noble and so far above the sordid lives of the people about her. Edwin, too, loved to hear the girl talk of her father’s estates, of the diamond-hilted sword that the Saladin had given, or had lent, to her ancestor hundreds of years ago. Her description of her father, the old earl, touched something romantic in Edwin’s generous heart. He was never tired of asking how old he was, was he robust, did a shock, a sudden shock, affect him much? And so on. Then had come the evening that Gwendoline loved to live over and over again in her mind, when Edwin had asked her in his straightforward, manly way, whether–subject to certain written stipulations to be considered later–she would be his wife: and she, putting her hand confidingly in his hand, answered simply, that–subject to the consent of her father and pending always the necessary legal formalities and inquiries–she would.

It had all seemed like a dream: and now Edwin Einstein had come in person to ask her hand from the earl, her father. Indeed, he was at this moment in the outer hall testing the gold leaf in the picture-frames with his pen-knife while waiting for his affianced to break the fateful news to Lord Oxhead.

Gwendoline summoned her courage for a great effort. “Papa,” she said, “there is one other thing that it is fair to tell you. Edwin’s father is in business.”

The earl started from his seat in blank amazement. “In business!” he repeated. “The father of the suitor of the daughter of an Oxhead in business! My daughter the stepdaughter of the grandfather of my grandson! Are you mad, girl? It is too much, too much!”

“But, father,” pleaded the beautiful girl in anguish, “hear me. It is Edwin’s father–Sarcophagus Einstein, senior–not Edwin himself. Edwin does nothing. He has never earned a penny. He is quite unable to support himself. You have only to see him to believe it. Indeed, dear father, he is just like us. He is here now, in this house, waiting to see you. If it were not for his great wealth…”

“Girl,” said the earl sternly, “I care not for the man’s riches. How much has he?”

“Fifteen million, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” answered Gwendoline. Lord Oxhead leaned his head against the mantelpiece. His mind was in a whirl. He was trying to calculate the yearly interest on fifteen and a quarter million dollars at four and a half per cent reduced to pounds, shillings, and pence. It was bootless. His brain, trained by long years of high living and plain thinking, had become too subtle, too refined an instrument for arithmetic….

At this moment the door opened and Edwin Einstein stood before the earl. Gwendoline never forgot what happened. Through her life the picture of it haunted her–her lover upright at the door, his fine frank gaze fixed inquiringly on the diamond pin in her father’s necktie, and he, her father, raising from the mantelpiece a face of agonised amazement.

“You! You!” he gasped. For a moment he stood to his full height, swaying and groping in the air, then fell prostrate his full length upon the floor. The lovers rushed to his aid. Edwin tore open his neckcloth and plucked aside his diamond pin to give him air. But it was too late.