* * * * *
The Swindler's Handicap
A SEQUEL TO "THE SWINDLER"
_Which I Dedicate to the Friend Who Asked for it._
I
"Yes, but what's the good of it?" said Cynthia Mortimer gently. "I can
never marry you."
"You might be engaged to me for a bit, anyhow," he urged, "and see how
you like it."
She made a quaint gesture with her arms, as though she tried to lift
some heavy weight.
"I am very sorry," she said, in the same gentle voice. "It's very nice
of you to think of it, Lord Babbacombe. But--you see, I'm quite sure I
shouldn't like it. So that ends it, doesn't it?"
He stood up to his full height, and regarded her with a faint, rueful
smile.
"You're a very obstinate girl, Cynthia," he said.
She leaned back in her chair, looking up at him with clear, grey eyes
that met his with absolute freedom.
"I'm not a girl at all, Jack," she said. "I gave up all my pretensions
to youth many, many years ago."
He nodded, still faintly smiling.
"You were about nineteen, weren't you?"
"No. I was past twenty-one." A curious note crept into her voice; it
sounded as if she were speaking of the dead. "It--was just twelve years
ago," she said.
Babbacombe's eyebrows went up.
"What! Are you past thirty? I had no idea."
She laughed at him--a quick, gay laugh.
"Why, it's eight years since I first met you.
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