He had the semblance of wealth, without the personal glow which absolute possession brings.

It was his habit to call himself a poor man, and it was his dream that Rose should marry a rich one.

Harry was hopeless.

He had been his Grandmother's pet up to the years of adolescence: he was getting too old for any prospect of a military career he had no turn for diplomacy, no taste for any of the walks open to blood and birth, and was in headlong disgrace with the fountain of goodness at Beckley Court, where he was still kept in the tacit understanding that, should Juliana inherit the place, he must be at hand to marry her instantly, after the fashion of the Jocelyns.

They were an injured family; for what they gave was good, and the commercial world had not behaved honourably to them.