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"There isn't any," said Fay. "There isn't a man in the world who's good enough for me. I came to that conclusion long ago."

He had fallen in at her side, and they were walking slowly together, to all appearance a well-bred man and woman, very good to look upon, engaged in a friendly conversation.

"How is that half-breed secretary of old Bellamy's?" he asked carelessly, and she flushed red.

"Where did you get that 'half-breed'?" she asked, her voice sharp and aggressive. "If you mean Mr. Savini, who happens to be a friend of mine, let me tell you that he comes from a very good old Portuguese family, and don't you forget it, Featherstone! And why I should allow myself to be seen speaking to an ivory-headed policeman, I don't know."

"Sorry," murmured Featherstone. "Of course, I ought to have remembered that you never call a Eurasian a half-breed. By the way, he is gone honest, they tell me?"

The exasperated girl swung round on him, and there was a hard glitter in her eye.

"Mr. Featherstone," she said hotly, "I'm not going to hear you talk about my—my friend, and I'll thank you to walk another way."