"Nothing, if you are referring to work. He does the usual Society
rounds, takes an interest in racing, and roams the world occasionally
in a palatial steam yacht. One does not have to worry about work if
one has an income of one hundred thousand pounds a year."
"No, I guess I'd somehow manage to struggle along on half a million
dollars a year myself and kiss work good-bye," said the American, with
a broad grin. "The little lady sure seems to have made a catch, sir,
judging from what you've told me, and yet Mr. Antony Standish somehow
don't look to me to be her style. By the look of Miss Rostrevor, and
the way she handled that horse, I should have guessed her fancy would
have run to something more of the big, he-man type, instead of to a
Society dandy. But one can never tell where women are concerned. And
five hundred thousand dollars a year will make any kind of guy almost
any kind of girl's ideal."
Antony Standish was not a "guy," in the colloquial English sense of the
word, but he was hardly the type of man one would have imagined as
likely to capture the heart of the high-spirited Irish beauty. He was
good-looking, with a fair complexion and a little sandy moustache, and
he carried himself with the air of a patrician, but his face lacked
character, and he had rather a weak chin. He had earned the reputation
of being one of the best-dressed men in London, had a host of friends,
most of whom called him "Tony," and he was talked of as "a good sport."
"Sure, and I wasn't showing off at all, at all, Tony," Myra Rostrevor
was saying to him in her soft, musical voice with a delightfully
attractive touch of the brogue. "It was Tiger here that was trying to
show off and make himself out to be my master.... Weren't ye, Tiger?"
She patted the sleek neck of her horse again as she spoke, and he
pricked his ears and tossed his head as if he understood. "There isn't
any horse or man who is going to master Myra Rostrevor," she added.
"That sounds like a challenge, Myra," drawled Tony Standish smilingly.
"How do you know but what I may adopt cave-man tactics after we are
married, and attempt to beat you into submission?"
Myra tossed her red-gold head much in the same way as her spirited
mount had tossed his, and trilled out a laugh.