A ROLLING STONE

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

DIANA BARRINGTON
A BIRD OF PASSAGE
BEYOND THE PALE
HER OWN PEOPLE
THE CAT’S-PAW
THE COMPANY’S SERVANT
KATHERINE THE ARROGANT
BABES IN THE WOOD, ETC.

A
ROLLING STONE

BY
B. M. CROKER

“L’amour est un vrai recommenceur.”—Bussy-Rabutin

LONDON
F. V. WHITE & CO. LTD.
17 BUCKINGHAM STREET, STRAND, W.C.
1911

CONTENTS

A ROLLING STONE

A ROLLING STONE

CHAPTER I
LADY KESTERS

After a day of strenuous social activities, Lady Kesters was enjoying a well-earned rest, reposing at full length on a luxurious Chesterfield, with cushions of old brocade piled at her back and a new French novel in her hand. Nevertheless, her attention wandered from Anatole France; every few minutes she raised her head to listen intently, then, as a little silver clock chimed five thin strokes, she rose, went over to a window, and, with an impatient jerk, pulled aside the blind. She was looking down into Mount Street, W., and endeavouring to penetrate the gloom of a raw evening towards the end of March.

It was evident that the lady was expecting some one, for there were two cups and saucers on a well-equipped tea-table, placed between the sofa and a cheerful log fire.

As the mistress of the house peers eagerly at passers-by, we may avail ourselves of the opportunity to examine her surroundings. There is an agreeable feeling of ample space, softly shaded lights, and rich but subdued colours. The polished floor is strewn with ancient rugs; bookcases and rare cabinets exhibit costly contents; flowers are in profusion; the air is heavily scented with white lilac; and a multitude of magazines and papers lie scattered about in careless abundance. The Hibbert Journal, the Clarion, Le Revue des deux mondes, and the Spectator indicate a Catholic taste; but we look in vain for a piano, a pet dog, or a workbasket.

As Lady Kesters turns from the window, it is seen that she is tall and slim, with dark, expressive eyes, a delicate, tip-tilted nose, and remarkably square chin; her figure, which is faultless, shows to admirable advantage in a simple gown of clinging black material.

And whilst she once more subsides into her sofa and book, we may venture to introduce a little sketch of her personal history.

Leila Wynyard and her brother Owen were the orphan children of a dashing cavalry officer, who was killed at polo, leaving family and creditors to the benevolence of his relations. Sir Richard, his brother, undertook charge of the boy, the girl—some years his senior—fell to the lot of a maiden aunt who lived in Eaton Terrace, and maintained considerable dignity in a small house, on an income to correspond. Leila had lessons and masters, her teeth, complexion, and deportment were objects of anxious solicitude; at eighteen she was brought out and presented, and hopes were entertained that, in her first or second season, she would make a suitable match, and secure a husband and a home. The girl carried herself with grace, had fine dark eyes, and fine fashionable connections; these latter combined to take her into society, and exhibit her at Ascot and Hurlingham, as well as balls and the opera. She visited historical country seats and notable Scottish moors, and was, so to speak, passed along from one house-party to another; and yet, despite her friends’ exertions, Leila Wynyard failed to “go off.” Perhaps the truth lay in the simple fact that the lady herself was disinclined to move on; and often joked over her social failure with her Aunt Eliza, who had a keen sense of humour and no mind to lose the light of her old age.

On the other hand, Leila Wynyard was known to be penniless! (for what is a hundred a year?—it scarcely keeps some women in hats) had no surpassing accomplishments to lift her out of the ruck; it was also whispered that she had an independent character, and a sharp tongue!

No one could deny that Miss Wynyard’s air was distinguished. Some men considered her a brilliant conversationalist, and extraordinarily clever—but these are rarely the attributes of the women they marry!

Time sped along, Miss Wynyard had been out for nine seasons, was spoken of in the family as “poor Leila,” and now relegated to the worst spare room, expected to make herself useful, “do the flowers,” write notes, and take over the bores. In short, she was about to step into the position of permanent poor relation, when, to the amazement of the whole connection, Leila married herself off with triumphant success! Alone she did it! Her uncle, Sir Richard Wynyard, owner of the family title and estates, was an old bachelor, who lived in a gloomy town house in Queen’s Gate, but spent most of his time at his club. At uncertain intervals he repaid hospitalities received, and entertained his friends at dinner under his own roof—he scorned the fashionable craze of assembling one’s guests at a restaurant. These banquets were well done—wine, ménu, and attendance being beyond criticism. They would also have been insupportably dull, but for the officiating hostess; and, thanks to Miss Wynyard’s admirable supervision, they were usually an enviable success.

The company were of a respectable age—the host’s contemporaries—old club friends or City folk, with their sedate and comfortable wives. Miss Wynyard introduced an element of youth and vivacity into the gathering, selected flowers for the table decoration, had a word about the savouries and dessert, and, on the evening itself, radiant and well dressed, enjoyed herself prodigiously—for Leila had the flair of the born hostess—a gift that had no opportunity for expanding in the limited space at home.

On one of these occasions, a certain Martin Kesters sat on Miss Wynyard’s right hand—a plain, elderly man, of few words and many thoughts, with rugged features, grizzled whiskers, and a made tie!—a melancholy and reluctant guest who rarely dined abroad, and had martyrised himself to please and appease his old schoolfellow, Dick Wynyard.

The brilliant Leila, who adored playing hostess and giving her talents full scope, drew him out with surprising subtlety, listened to his opinions with flattering deference, put him at his ease and in good humour with himself, and won, so to speak, his heart! She was not aware that Mr. Kesters was a wealthy widower, and mainly responsible for the enormous increase in her uncle’s fortunes; but this would not have made an atom of difference. Her attention would have been precisely the same had he been a penniless curate; she could see that he was overpowered by his partner—a magnificent matron who talked exclusively of royalties—his answers were short and gruff;—evidently he was bored to death and longing to be at home; and she instantly made up her mind to capture his interest and rivet his attention.

Leila was on her mettle that night, and achieved a notable success. How she shone! Even Sir Richard was amazed—he was proud of, and not a little afraid of, his clever niece; as for Mr. Kesters, he watched her furtively, noted her upright grace, her animation, her delightful smile, her art of saying the right thing—and saying it well—her insidious dexterity in leading the conversation into interesting channels, yet never obtruding her own personality. It was not the excellence of the champagne that made every one at the table feel themselves unusually shining and brilliant. No, poor souls! they were but the pale reflection of this luminous star.

Then the girl’s appearance—she was a girl to his fifty-six years—of superb health and vitality. What an inmate for a dull, drab home—what a stimulating companion for a lonely man!

It was a cosy little party of eight, and at a sign from the hostess, three matrons arose and preceded her up to the ghostly drawing-room, there to feel depressingly flat and to sip very superior coffee. After some devastating comments on the British climate and the British domestic, two of the quartette retired, whispering, to a sofa, in order to discuss a cure—leaving Miss Wynyard and Lady Billing tête-à-tête.

“This room is rather a dreadful specimen of Early Victorian,” said Leila, waving an apologetic spoon. “I fought so hard for these loose chintz covers and lamp-shades; but everything else is as it was in grandmamma’s time—there she is, between the windows, in yellow satin and ringlets! The venerable servants who still survive will not hear of a change. Do look at the carpet; it must be fifty years of age. How old things wear!”

“I wonder Sir Richard does not live in a flat near his club,” suggested her ladyship in diamonds and velvet; “so much more comfortable and up-to-date.”

“Yes; but then this is the family town house, and he is never quite sure that he won’t marry.”

“Marry!” repeated Lady Billing, “what an idea!”

“It is his favourite threat”—and Leila laughed—“if the cooking is bad, the coal indifferent, or the servants too autocratic.”

“But isn’t your brother his heir?” opening her eyes to their widest extent. “How would he like that?”

“Oh, I really don’t think Owen would care a straw; he is rather happy-go-lucky, and never thinks of the future. After all, Uncle Dick is not an old man, and I don’t see why he should not please himself. I may dance at his wedding yet!”

“I suppose there is no particular lady in the case?” inquired the other judicially.

Miss Wynyard smiled, and shook her head.

“Do you know, my dear, that you have made an important conquest this evening?” Then, in answer to Miss Wynyard’s gaze of amazement, “Mr. Kesters,” she added, with impressive solemnity.

“Mr.—Kesters?” repeated Leila.

“Your neighbour at dinner, you know. He was simply swept off his feet—any one could see that!” and she flourished a puffy hand.

“Well, I hope he has recovered his equilibrium by now. Why, we never met till eight o’clock.”

“He rarely goes anywhere. He is just a money-spinner—enormously rich—he can make money, but he does not know how to spend or enjoy it.”

“That’s easily learnt,” declared the young lady, with a gay laugh; “I’d give him lessons with pleasure.”

“Oh, my dear, it is not so easy to spend, when you have the habit of years of economy. His wife was terribly close; they say she counted the potatoes and matches! She was his cousin, and had a nice fortune.”

“So, then, he is a widower?”

“Yes, this five years; he lives alone in Eaton Square—such a frowzy house—it has never known a spring cleaning! Mrs. Kesters and I exchanged calls. She would not allow the windows to be opened; loved King Charles dogs (horrid things) and parrots; dressed on thirty pounds a year; and her only extravagance was patent medicines. The premises simply reeked of them! Latterly, she was a helpless invalid, and since her death Mr. Kesters goes nowhere, just occupies a couple of rooms, and devotes himself to business. Business is his pleasure. He is a mighty man in the City—though he is so shy and reserved in society. I declare you quite woke him up to-night; I’ve known him for years, and I never saw him so animated.”

“I suppose I hit on a lucky topic—he told me such interesting things about mining and minerals.”

“Gold especially; they say everything he touches turns to that! My husband and he are rather friendly, and once or twice he has dined with us, scarcely uttered a word, and looked as if he was going to sleep. Oh, here they are!” as the door opened, and the two ladies on the sofa suddenly concluded a mysterious and confidential conversation, and sat expectant and erect. But the men as one man made straight for Miss Wynyard.

Later, as the guests departed, Mr. Kesters lingered to the last, and his host said fussily—

“I say, look here, Martin, I suppose you have your carriage, and you may as well take my niece home; you are going in her direction.”

“My dear uncle, why should you victimise Mr. Kesters?” she protested; “I shall return as I came, in a hansom.”

But Mr. Kesters intervened with unexpected gallantry, and declared that to escort Miss Wynyard was an honour that he could not forgo. Subsequently he conducted her down to a shabby, “one-horse” brougham—the coachman’s legs were wrapped in a specially odoriferous stable rug—and conveyed her to Eaton Terrace. As he took leave of her at the hall door, he ventured to put a timid question.

He was such a near neighbour—might he come and call?

“Yes, of course,” assented the lady; “Aunt Eliza will be delighted to see you—we are always at home on Sundays, four to six.”

Subsequently Mr. Kesters became a regular visitor, and met with Aunt Eliza’s approval; and, before many Sundays had elapsed, a paragraph concerning the names of Wynyard and Kesters appeared in the Morning Post.

And so poor Leila became rich Leila! and, from being an insignificant relation, a person of considerable social importance. Until her marriage few had discovered Mrs. Kesters’ beauty—her cleverness had never been disputed. Now, as the result of a visit to Paris, armed with a cheque-book, she glorified her appearance, wore charming frocks and exquisite jewels, and, with her fine air and admirable figure, it was impossible “to pass her unnoticed in a crowd.”

Mrs. Kesters organised changes other than personal: the gloomy abode in Eaton Square was sold, its contents dispatched to an auction room—including two old stuffed parrots, and the mangy remains of her predecessor’s King Charles; another house was taken and furnished regardless of expense, a motor purchased, and a staff of experienced servants engaged. In a surprisingly short time Mrs. Martin Kesters of 202 Mount Street, Grosvenor Square, had become a popular member of society. Her little dinners and luncheons were famous, not alone for the quality of the menu, but also of the guests. Martin, too, had been transformed as by a wand! His whiskers disappeared, he was persuaded to change his tailor, and given a good conceit of himself. He felt ten years younger, brisk, energetic, prepared to enjoy his money and the Indian summer of his life. Instead of being taciturn, he talked; instead of going to sleep after dinner, he patronised the theatre; he learnt to play bridge and golf. In the society of ladies his manners had become assured, and he no longer was at a helpless loss to know what to say, or stumbled clumsily over their trains. For all these new accomplishments he had to thank Leila; and he was devoted to his brilliant and charming wife. She was more or less in touch with political people, and clever men, and women that mattered. The fascinating Mrs. Kesters was successful in drawing-room diplomacy and the delicate art of pulling strings; and, to her husband’s astonishment, he had found himself a K.C.B., and elected to an exclusive club—sitting on important committees, dining in stately houses, and entertaining notable guests.

Lady Kesters’ connections held up their hands, cast up their eyes, and declared that “Leila was too wonderful!” She had changed a dull, plodding, City man into a well-turned-out, agreeable, bland individual—who was her abject slave—and she had become a leader in her own particular set. Her relatives repeated, “Who would have thought Leila had it in her?” But Leila had, so to speak, always “had it in her.” “It” represented brains, tact, a passion for affairs and managing, a hidden and ambitious spirit, and an active and impatient longing to taste responsibility and power.

The clock pointed to a quarter past five. Lady Kesters took up the silver caddy and was proceeding to ladle out tea, when the door opened, a servant announced “Mr. Wynyard,” and a remarkably good-looking young man entered the room.

Before he could speak, Lady Kesters turned to the butler, and said—

“Payne, if any one should call, I am not at home.”

“Very good, my lady,” he replied, and softly closed the door.

A maid, who happened to be on the landing, witnessed the recent arrival and overheard the order, now winked at Payne with easy impudence, and gave a significant sniff.

“I don’t know what you’re sniffing about,” he said peevishly. “I suppose you will allow her ladyship to receive her own brother in peace and comfort, seeing as he is just back from South America, and she hasn’t laid eyes on him for near a year.”

“Oh, so that’s her brother, is it?” said the young woman; “and an uncommonly fine young chap—better looking than her ladyship by long chalks!”

“You go down to your tea and leave her ladyship’s looks alone. I don’t know what you’re doing hanging about this landing at such an hour of the day.”

Payne was an old servant in the Wynyard family, and he was aware it had been generally said that “Master Owen had the looks and Miss Leila the brains.” Master Owen was always a wild, harum-scarum young fellow, and it wasn’t at all unlikely that he had got into one of his scrapes. With this conviction implanted in his mind, Payne deliberately descended the stairs, issued an edict to one of the footmen, and retired into his lair and the evening paper.

CHAPTER II
BROTHER AND SISTER

“Well,” began Lady Kesters, as the door closed, “I suppose you have seen him?”

“I have very much seen him,” replied her brother, who had thrown himself into a chair; “I did a sprint across the park, because I know your ladyship cannot bear to be kept waiting. Everything must be done to the minute in this establishment.”

“Yes,” she agreed; “and you come from a country where time is no object—everything is for ‘To-morrow.’ Now, tell me about Uncle Richard. Was he furious?”

“No; I believe I would have got off better if he had been in a rage. He received me in a ‘more in sorrow than in anger’ frame of mind, spoke as deliberately as if he had written his speech, and learnt it by heart; he meant every word he said.”

“I doubt it,” said his sister, who had been filling the teapot, and now closed the lid with a decisive snap. “Let me hear all you can remember.”

“He said he had done his best for me since I was a kid—his only brother’s son and his heir,—that he had sent me to Eton——”

“As if you didn’t know that!” she interrupted.

“Engineered me into the Service——”

“Yes, yes, yes!” with a wave of her hand. “Tell me something new.”

“He says that he is sick of me and my failures—is that new?”

“What does he propose?” asked Lady Kesters.

“He proposes that, for a change, I should try and get along by myself, and no longer hang on to other people.”

“Well, there is some sense in that.”

“He says that if I continue as I’ve begun, I’ll develop into the awful loafer who haunts men’s clubs, trying to borrow half a sov. from old pals, and worrying them with begging letters.”

“A pretty future for you, Owen!”

“He swears I must work for my living and earn my daily bread; and that, if, for two years from now, I can maintain myself honourably in this country or the Continent—Asia, Africa, and America are barred—and neither get into debt, prison, or any matrimonial entanglement——” he paused for a moment to laugh.

“Yes, yes,” said his sister impatiently; “and if you comply with all these conditions?”

“He will reinstate me, put me into Wynyard to take the place of his agent, and give me a handsome screw. But if I play the fool, he takes his solemn oath he will leave everything he possesses to a hospital, and all I shall come in for will be the bare estate, an empty house, and an empty title—and that he hopes to keep me out of for the next thirty years!”

“No doubt he will,” agreed his sister; “we are—bar accidents—a long-lived stock.”

“He also said that he was only fifty-six; he might marry; a Lady Wynyard——”

“No fear of that,” she interposed; “the old servants will never permit it, and never receive her. But how are you to earn your living and your daily bread?”

“That, he declares, is entirely my affair. Of course he doesn’t expect much from a wooden-headed duffer like me; he knows I’ve no brains, and no, what he calls ‘initiative or push.’ He doesn’t care a rap if I sweep a crossing or a chimney, as long as I am able to maintain myself, become independent, and learn to walk alone.”

“So that is Uncle Richard’s programme!” said Lady Kesters reflectively. “Now, let’s have some tea,” and she proceeded to pour it out. “The little cakes are cold and stodgy, but try these sandwiches. Martin is away to-night—he had to go to a big meeting in Leeds, and won’t be home. I shall send for your things. I suppose you are at your old quarters in Ryder Street?”

“Yes; they have been awfully decent to me, and kept my belongings when I was away.”

“And you must come here for a week, and we will think out some scheme. I wish you could stay on and make your home here. But you know Martin has the same sort of ideas as Uncle Richard; he began, when he was eighteen, on a pound a week, and made his own way, and thinks every young man should do the same.”

“I agree with him there—though it may sound funny to hear me say so, Sis. I hope you don’t imagine I’ve come back to loaf; I shall be only too glad to be on my own.”

“I suppose you have no money at all?” she inquired, as she replenished his teacup.

“I have fifteen pounds, if you call that nothing, all my London kit, a pair of guns, and a gold watch.”

“But what brought you back so suddenly? You did not half explain to me this morning, when you tumbled from the skies.”

“Well, you see,” he began, as he rose and put down his cup, “the Estancia I was on was of the wrong sort, as it happened, and a rotten bad one. Uncle Richard was tremendously keen to deport me, and he took hold of the first thing he heard of, some crazy advice from a blithering old club fogey who did not know a blessed thing about the country. The Valencia Estancia, a horse-breeding one, was far away inland—not one of those nearer Buenos Ayres and civilisation,—it belonged to a native. The proprietor, Vincino, was paralysed from a bad fall, and the place was run by a ruffian called Murcia. I did not mind roughing it; it’s a splendid climate, and I liked the life itself well enough. I got my fill of riding, and a little shooting—duck, and a sort of partridge—and I appreciated the freedom from the tall hat and visiting card.”

“You never used many of those!” she interposed.

“No. From the first I never could stand Murcia; he was such an oily scoundrel, and an awful liar; so mean and treacherous and cruel, both to men and animals. He drank a lot of that frightfully strong spirit that’s made out there—fermented cane—and sometimes he was stark mad, knocking the servants and the peons about; and as to the horses, he was a fiend to them. He killed lots of the poor brutes by way of training; lassoed them—and broke their hearts. It made my blood boil, and, as much as I could, I took over the breaking-in business. When I used to jaw him and remonstrate, it made him wild, and he always had his knife into me on the sly.”

“How?”

“The stiffest jobs, the longest days, the largest herds, were naturally for the English ‘Gringo.’”

“What is that?”

“A dog. He never called it to my face—he was too much of the cur—but we had several shakes up, and the last was final. One afternoon I caught him half-killing a wretched woman that he said had been stealing coffee. It was pay-day, all the employés, to a man and child, were assembled in the patio—you know what that is? An enclosed courtyard with the house round it. This was a grand old dilapidated Spanish Estancia, with a fine entrance of great iron gates. It was a warm, still sort of afternoon. As I cantered across the campo I heard harrowing shrieks, and, when I rode in, I soon saw what was up! Murcia, crazy with drink, was holding a wretched creature by her hair and belabouring her with a cattle-whip, whilst the crowd looked on, and no one stirred a finger.”

“You did?” leaning forward eagerly.

“Rather! I shouted to him to hold hard, and he only cursed; so I jumped off the horse and went for him straight. He dropped his victim and tried to lay on to me with the whip; but the boot was on the other leg, and I let him have it, I can tell you. It was not a matter of fists, but flogging. My blood was up, and I scourged that blackguard with all my soul and all my strength. He ran round and round the patio yelling, whilst the crowd grinned and approved. I settled some of Murcia’s scores on the spot and paid for many blows and outrages! In the end he collapsed in the dust, grovelling at my feet, blubbering and groaning, ‘a worm and no man.’ I think that’s in the Bible. Yes, I gave that hulking, drunken brute a thrashing that he will never forget—and those who saw it won’t forget it either. Naturally, after such a performance I had to clear. You may do a lot of things out there; you may even shoot a man, but you must never lay hands on an overseer; so I made tracks at once, without pay, bonus, character, or anything except the adoration of the employés, my clothes, and a few pounds. Murcia would have run me in, only he would have shown up badly about the woman. Well, I came down country in a cattle-train, and found I was just short of coin to pay my way home.”

Leila stared into the fire in silence; her warm imagination transported her to the scene her brother had described. She, too, was on the campo, and heard the cries of the woman; she saw the Englishman gallop through the gates, saw the cowardly crowd, the maddened ruffian, the victim, and the punishment!

“But what did you do with your salary?” she asked, after an expressively long pause; “surely you had no way of spending it?”

“That’s true. As I was to have a bonus, you know, on the year, my salary was small, and I got rid of it easily enough.”

“Cards!” she supplemented; “oh, of course. My dear Owen, I’m afraid you are hopeless!”

“Yes, I suppose it’s hereditary! After the day’s work there was nothing to do. All the other chaps gambled, and I could not stand with my hands in my pockets looking on; so I learnt the good old native game of ‘Truco,’ but I had no luck—and lost my dollars.”

“And after your arrival at Buenos Ayres in the cattle-train, what happened?”

“Well, naturally, I had no spare cash to spend in that little Paris: the Calle Florida, and the Café Florian, and Palermo Park, saw nothing of me, much less the magnificent Jockey Club. I searched about for a cast home! I was determined to get back to the Old Country, for I knew I’d do no good out there—I mean in Buenos Ayres; so I went down to the Digue, where the big liners lie, and cadged for a job. I believe they are pretty sick of chaps asking for a lift home, and I had some difficulty in getting a berth; but, after waiting several days, I got hold of a captain to listen to me. I offered to stoke.”

“Owen!”

“Yes; but he said, ‘You look like a stoker, don’t you? Why, you’re a gentleman! You couldn’t stand the engine-room for an hour. However, as I see you are not proud and they are short of hands in the stewards’ pantry, they might take you on to wash plates.’”

Lady Kesters made no remark; her expression was sufficiently eloquent.

“‘All right,’ I agreed, ‘I’ll do my little best.’ So I was made over to the head steward. We carried a full number of passengers that trip, and, when one of the saloon waiters fell sick, I was promoted into his place, as I was clean and civil. Needless to say, I was thankful to get away from the horrors of greasy plates and the fag of cleaning knives. I can wait pretty well, the ladies liked me—yes, and I liked them—and when we docked at Southampton yesterday, Owen, as they called me, received nearly six pounds in tips, not to speak of a steamer chair and a white umbrella!”

As he concluded, he walked over to the fire and stood with his back to it. His sister surveyed him reflectively; she was thinking how impossible it was to realise that her well-bred, smart-looking brother, in his admirably cut clothes, and air of easy self-possession, had, within twenty-four hours, been a steward at the beck and call of the passengers on a liner. However, all she said was—

“So at any rate you have made a start, and begun to earn money already.”

“Oh, that’s nothing new. I was never quite broke;” and, diving into his pocket, he produced a little parcel, which he tossed into her lap.

“For me?”

“For who else?”

He watched her attentively as she untied the narrow bit of red and yellow ribbon, unfolded a flat box, and discovered a beautiful plaque or clasp in old Spanish paste. The design was exquisite, and the ornament flashed like a coruscation of Brazilian diamonds.

“Oh, Owen, how perfect!” she gasped; “but how dare you? It must have cost a fortune—as much as your passage money,” and she looked up at him interrogatively.

“Never mind; it was a bargain. I picked it up in a queer, poky little shop, and it’s real old, old Spanish—time of Ferdinand and Isabella they said—and I felt I’d like to take something home to you; it will look jolly well on black, eh?”

“Do you know it’s just the sort of thing that I have been aching to possess,” she said, now holding it against her gown. “If you had searched for a year you couldn’t have given me anything I liked so much—so beautiful in itself, so rare and ancient, and so uncommon that not one of my dear friends can copy it. Oh, it’s a treasure”—standing up to look at her reflection as she held the jewel against her bodice—“but all the same, it was wicked of you to buy it!”

“There are only the two of us, Sis, and why shouldn’t I give myself that pleasure?”

“What a pretty speech!” and she patted his arm approvingly.

At this moment Payne entered, salver in hand.

“A telegram for you, my lady.”

“Oh,” picking it up, and tearing it open, “it’s from Martin. He is detained till Saturday—three whole days;” then, turning to the butler, she said, “You can take away the tea-table.”

As soon as the tea-things were removed, and Payne and his satellite had departed, Lady Kesters produced a gold case, selected a cigarette, settled herself comfortably in a corner of the sofa, and said—

“Now, Owen, light up, and let us have a pow-wow! Have you any plan in your head?”

“No,” he answered, “I’m afraid my head is, as usual, pretty empty, and of course this ultimatum of Uncle Richard’s has been a bit of a facer; I was in hopes he’d give me another chance.”

“What sort of chance?”

“Something in South Africa.”

“Something in South Africa has been the will-o’-the-wisp that has ruined lots of young men,” she said; “you would do no good there, O. You haven’t enough push, originality, or cheek; I believe you would find yourself a tram conductor in Cape Town.”

“Then what about India? I might get a billet on some tea estate—yes—and some shooting as well!”

“Tea-planters’ assistants, as far as I can gather, don’t have much time for shooting. There is the tea-picking to look after, and the coolies to overseer in all weathers. I believe the work in the rains is awful and the pay is poor—you’d be much more likely to get fever than shooting. Have you any other scheme?”

She glanced at her brother, who was lying back in an arm-chair, his hands clasped behind his head, his eyes fixed on the fire. Yes, Owen was undeniably good to look at, with his clean-shaven, clear-cut face, well-knit figure, and length of limb. He shook his head, but after a moment said—

“Now let us have your ideas, Sis. You are always a sure draw!”

“What about matrimony?” she asked composedly, and without raising her eyes.

He turned and surveyed her with a stare of ironical amusement.

“On the principle that what is not enough for one will support two—eh?”

“How can you be so silly! I don’t mean love in a cottage; I’m thinking of an heiress. There are several, so to speak, on the market, and I believe I could marry you off remarkably well, if you were not too critical; there is Miss Goldberger—a really good sort—enormously rich, an orphan, and hideous to the verge of fascination. She is in the racing set—and——”

“No, thank you, Sis,” he broke in; “I’d rather drive a ’bus or motor any day than live on my wife’s fortune. If I married one of your rich friends I should hate it, and I guarantee that she’d soon hate me; anyway, I’m not keen on getting married. So, as the young men in shops say, ‘and the next article, please?’”

“Of course I know I need not again waste my breath talking to you of business. Martin got you a capital opening in Mincing Lane, and you threw it up; he’d taken a lot of trouble, and he is rather sore about it still. He fancies you look down on the City.”

“I? He never made a greater mistake! The City would soon look down on me. I’m no good at figures; I’ve no business ability or smart alacrity. If I had not taken myself off, I’d soon have been chucked out; besides, I never could stick in an office all day from ten to six. I’d much rather wash plates! I want something that will keep me in the open air all the time, rain or shine; and if I had to do with horses, so much the better. How about a place as groom—a breaker-in of young hunters?”

“Not to be thought of!” she answered curtly.

“No?” then drawing out another cigarette, “do you know, I’ve half a mind to enlist. You see, I know something of soldiering—and I like it. I’d soon get my stripes, and for choice I’d pick the ‘Death and Glory Boys.’”

“Yes; you may like soldiering as an officer, with a fair allowance, a couple of hunters, and polo ponies; but I’m not sure that Trooper Wynyard would care for stables, besides his drill and work, and I may be wrong, but I think you have a couple of troop horses to do up.”

“Oh, I could manage all right! I’m rather handy with horses, though I must confess the bronchos I’ve been riding lately did not get much grooming.”

“No, no, Owen, I’m dead against enlisting, remember that,” she said authoritatively. “I shall go and interview Uncle Richard to-morrow morning, and have a tooth-and-nail combat on your behalf, find out if he means to stick to his intention, or if I can’t persuade him to give you a job on the estate, say as assistant agent, that would suit you?”

“You’re awfully clever, Sis,” said the young man, now rising and leaning against the chimneypiece, “and in every respect the head of the family. It’s downright wonderful how successfully you manage other people’s affairs, and give one a push here and a hand there. I am aware that you have immense and far-reaching—er—influence. You have been the making of Kesters.”

His sister dismissed the statement with an impatient jerk of her cigarette.

“Oh yes, you have,” he went on doggedly. “He was formerly a common or garden wealthy man, whose daytime was divided between meals and business; now he’s a K.C.B., sits on all sorts of boards, has a fine place in the country, shoots a bit, is a Deputy-Lieutenant, and I don’t know what all—and you’ve done it! But there is one person you cannot manage or move, and that is Uncle Richard; he is like a stone figure that all the wind and sun and rain may beat on, and he never turns a hair.”

“How you do mix your metaphors!” she exclaimed; “who ever saw a stone image with hair upon it! Well,” rising to stand beside him, “I shall see what I can do in the morning. Now, let us put the whole thing out of our heads and have a jolly evening. Shall we go to a theatre? I suppose you’ve not been inside one since you were last in town?”

“Oh yes, I was at theatres in Buenos Ayres, the Theatre Doria, a sort of music hall, where I saw some ripping dancing.”

“I’ll telephone for stalls at something. You may as well have all the fun you can before you start off to plough your lonely furrow.”

“It’s awfully good of you, Sis. I’m a frightful nuisance to the family—something between a bad penny and a black sheep!”

“No, Owen, you know perfectly well you are neither,” she protested, as she lit another cigarette. “You mentioned just now there are only the two of us, and it would be rather strange if we did not stick by one another. And there is this to be said, that although you’ve been wild and extravagant, and your gambling and practical joking were shocking, all the time you remain a gentleman; and there are two things in your favour—you don’t drink——”

“No, thank God!” he responded, with emphasis.

“As far as I know you have never been mixed up with women—eh, Owen?” and she looked at him steadily.

“No. To tell you the truth, I give them a wide berth. I’ve seen some pretty awful affairs they had a hand in. To be candid, I’m a little shy of your sex.”

“That is funny, Owen,” she replied, “considering it was on account of a woman you have just been thrown out of a job.”

“You could hardly expect a man to stand by and see a brute like Murcia knocking a poor creature about—half-killing her—and never interfere!”

“No, of course; but you must not make the mistake of being too chivalrous—chivalry is costly—and it is my opinion that it has cost you a good deal already. That detestable de Montfort was not the first who let you in, or persuaded you to pull his chestnuts out of the fire. Come now, own up—confess to the others.”

“No—no”—and he smiled—he had a charming smile—“there is such a thing as honour among thieves.”

“That’s all very noble and generous, my dear brother, but some of the thieves were not honourable.”

Her dear brother made no reply; he was staring fixedly into the fire and thinking of Hugo de Montfort. How little had he imagined, when he backed Hugo’s bill, that the scribbling of his signature would make such an awful change in his own life!

Hugo and he had been at Eton in the same house; they had fagged together, sat side by side in chapel, and frequently shared the same scrapes. Later they had lost sight of one another, as Owen had struggled into the Service and gone out to India. Some years later, when stationed at the depôt, he and de Montfort had come across one another once more.

Hugo de Montfort was a self-possessed young man, with sleek black hair and a pair of curiously unreadable grey eyes: an idler about town—clever, crafty, unscrupulous, and much given to cards and racing.

He welcomed his old pal Wynyard with enthusiasm—and secretly marked him for his own. Wynyard—so said report—was a nailing rider, a good sort, popular, and known to be the nephew and heir of a rich, unmarried uncle; so he played the rôle of old schoolfellow and best pal for all it was worth.

The plausible, insidious scoundrel, who lived by his wits, was on his last legs—though he kept the fact a secret—was seen everywhere, carried a bold front, and owned a magnificent 60 h.p. motor, which was useful in more ways than one. He was staying at the Métropôle at Folkestone, and, struck by a bright idea—so he declared—motored over to Canterbury one fine Sunday morning, and carried off his friend to lunch.

As they sat smoking and discussing recent race meetings, weights, and jockeys, de Montfort suddenly put down his cigar and said—

“I say, look here, Owen, old man. I’m in rather a tight fix this week. I want two thousand to square a bookie—and, like the real sporting chap you are—will you back my name on a bill?”

Owen’s expression became unusually grave; backing a bill was an iniquity hitherto unknown to him. Uncle Dick had recently paid up handsomely, and he had given certain promises; and, indeed, had curtailed his expenses, sold two of his ponies, and had made up his mind to keep strictly within his allowance.

“Of course it’s a mere form,” pursued de Montfort, in his swaggering, off-hand way, “I swear to you. Do you think I’d ask you, if it was not safe as a church! I’ll have the coin in a fortnight; but just at the moment I’m terribly short, and you know yourself what racing debts mean. So I come to you, my old pal, before any one; you are such a rare, good, generous, open-handed sort! Don’t for a moment suppose that you will be responsible,” declared this liar; “I’ll take up the bill when it falls due; I’d as soon let in my own mother as a pal like you.”

In short, Hugo was so urgent and so plausible, that his victim was persuaded and carried away by eloquence and old memories, accompanied de Montfort to a writing-table, where he signed O. St. J. Wynyard—and repented himself before his signature had been blotted!

Two days later Owen received a beautiful silver cigarette-case, inscribed, as a token of friendship from de Montfort, and this was succeeded by an alarming silence. When the time approached for the bill to fall due, Wynyard wrote anxious epistles to his old schoolfellow—who appeared to be one of the crowd who believe that letters answer themselves! Then he went up to town and sought him at his rooms and club; no one could give him any tidings of Hugo beyond the fact that he was abroad—a wide and unsatisfactory address. He sent distracted telegrams to some of the runaway’s former haunts; there was no reply. The fatal day arrived, and Owen was compelled to interview his uncle and make a clean breast of the whole business; and his uncle was furious to the verge of apoplexy.

“They used to say,” he shouted, “put the fool of the family into the army; but my fool shall not remain in the Service! I’ll pay up the two thousand you’ve been robbed of for the sake of my name—and out you go! Send in your papers to-day!”

Lady Kesters was contemplating her face in the overmantle, which also reflected her brother’s unusually grave visage.

“Owen,” she said, “what a pity it is that I hadn’t your looks and you my brains.”

They presented a contrast, as they examined one another in the glass. The woman’s dark, irregular face, her keen, concentrated expression; the man with clear-cut features, sleepy, deep-set grey eyes, and close-cropped light brown hair.

“I think you are all right as you are, Sis,” he remarked, after a reflective pause.

“But you are not,” she snapped. “Now, if you had my head. Oh, how I long to be a man! I’d have gone into Parliament. I’d have helped to manage the affairs of a nation instead of the affairs of a family. I’d have worked and slaved and made myself a name—yes, and gone far!”

“What’s the good of going far?” he asked, in a lazy voice.

“Ah,” she exclaimed, with a touch of passion, “you have no ambition; you don’t even know what the word means! Look at the men in the Commons, who have worked themselves up from nothing to be powers in the land, whose influence is far-reaching, whose voices are heard at the ends of the earth. What would be your ambition, come now?” and she surveyed him with sparkling eyes.

“Certainly not to go into Parliament,” he answered, “and sit in the worst atmosphere in London for eight months of the year.”

“Well, at least it’s an electrical atmosphere, charged with vitality! And your ambition?” she persisted.

“To win the Grand National, riding my own horse, since you must know.”

“Pooh!” she exclaimed, snapping her fingers with a gesture of scorn, “and what a paltry aim!—the yells of a raving mob, a ‘para’ in the papers, and the chance of breaking your neck.”

“Better than breaking something else! I’m told that a political career, with its incessant work, crushing disappointments, worry, and fag, has broken many a fellow’s heart.”

“Heart! Nonsense; I don’t believe you have one. Well, now, as we are dining early, you had better see about your things from Ryder Street, and I will go and ’phone for stalls for The Giddy Girl.”

CHAPTER III
THE LAST WORD GOES BEGGING

Sir Richard Wynyard, aged fifty-six, was a little, grey, square-shouldered man, with a good heart and bad temper. His father, the notorious Sir Fulke, had put his two sons into the army, given them small and irregularly paid allowances, and then abandoned them to their own devices, whilst he squandered the family patrimony on horses and cards. When Richard, his heir, was quartered in Dublin, he fell desperately in love with a beautiful Irish girl; but, painfully aware of his own empty purse, he was too prudent to marry—unlike his reckless younger brother, who adventured a runaway match on a captain’s pay and debts. Major Wynyard made no sign, much as this silence cost him, and when, after his father’s death, he had at last a roof to offer—Wynyard, a stately old place, although somewhat dismantled—he sought his lady-love in haste, but, alas! he was months too late; she had already been summoned to another home,—the beautiful Rose O’Hara, his heart’s desire, was dead.

This was said to have been Sir Richard’s sole love-affair, and the one grief of his life. The late baronet’s reckless extravagance had shattered the fortunes of his descendants; his heir found himself compelled to let the land, close the Hall, sell off the horses, and take up his abode with his mother in the town house in Queen’s Gate; where he lived and how, was indifferent to him, he seemed to have no heart for anything. This was attributed to his supreme disgust at inheriting such a legacy of debt; but the real truth was that the loss of the beautiful Rose had temporarily stunned her lover.

Lady Wynyard, once a celebrated beauty, was now a weak and withered old dowager, tyrannically ruled by her servants. When she, too, was carried to the ancestral vault, her son still remained in the gloomy family abode, and, more from apathy than anything else, fell under the thrall of her retainers.

Between his father’s and his mother’s debts, Sir Richard found himself sorely pressed, and he took Martin Kesters, his schoolfellow and friend, into his confidence.

“I shall be a crippled man all my life,” he declared; “it will take years to nurse the property into anything like what it was in my grandfather’s day; and, by that time, that young chap, Owen, will step into my shoes.”

“Well, Dick, if you don’t mind a bit of risk,” said his companion, “I know a thing that will set you on your legs and make your fortune; but it’s not absolutely certain. Still, if it comes off, you get five hundred per cent. for your money, and become a semi-millionaire. It’s an Australian gold-mine, and I believe it’s going to boom!”

“Anything is better than this half-and-half existence,” said Sir Richard impatiently. “You have a long head, Martin, and I’ll take your tip and put on all I can scrape. I’ll mortgage some outlying land, sell some of the good pictures and the library, and be either a man or a mouse. For once in my life I’ll do a big gamble. If I win, you say it’s a big thing; if I lose, it means a few hundreds a year and a bedroom near my club for the rest of my days. I take no middle course—I’ll be a rich man or a pauper.”

And Sir Richard was as good as his word; he scraped up fifteen thousand pounds, staked the whole sum on his venture—and won.

Subsequently, he cleared the property, invested in some securities, began to feel at ease in the world, and travelled widely. Having known the pinch and humiliation of genteel poverty and practised stern self-denial in his youth, Sir Richard was naturally the last man to have any sympathy with a nephew—a restless, reckless scatter-brain—who was following in the footsteps of his squandering forefathers. The good-looking young scapegrace must have a sharp lesson, and learn the value of money and independence.

Lady Kesters’ promised interview with her uncle took place. He was fond of Leila in his own brusque fashion, and secretly plumed himself on having manœuvred her marriage.

“Well, Leila, I suppose you have come about this precious brother of yours?” he began, as she was ushered into the smoking-room.

“Of course I have, Uncle Dick,” she replied, as she imprinted a kiss upon his cheek and swept into a chair. “Something must be done!” and she looked at him with speculative eagerness.

“There I agree with you,” he answered. “And Owen is the man to do it. God helps those who help themselves!”

“Owen is most anxious to make another start; but it is not easy for a soldier man, brought up as he has been.”

“Brought up as a rich man’s heir,” broke in her uncle, with a quick, impatient movement; “more fool the rich man! I gave the fellow a good education, good allowance, good send-off. I got him into his father’s old regiment, and made him a decent allowance; he did fairly well in India, I admit; but as soon as he came home to the depôt, he seemed to have lost his head. Why, I believe the young scamp actually kept racers, and as for his hunters, I never saw finer cattle in my life! One day, when I happened to run down to Canterbury to visit him, I noticed a servant exercising a couple of horses—such a pair! I was bound to stop and admire them, and the groom informed me that they belonged to Lieutenant Wynyard of the Red Hussars; and Mr. Wynyard’s uncle hadn’t as much as a donkey to his name!”

“But could have thousands if he chose,” interposed Leila. “As for racing, it was only his hunters Owen put into regimental steeplechases and that sort of thing.”

“And that sort of thing came devilish expensive!” snapped Sir Richard, who was now pacing the room. “I had to pay his debts. I paid them twice, and he promised on his word of honour to turn over a new leaf. The next thing he did was to back a bill for an infernal young swindler, and let me in for two thousand pounds—that was the last straw!”

“Yes, I know it was,” assented his niece; “but really, Uncle Dick, Owen was not so much to blame as you believe. He was very steady out in India for four years; coming home, as you say, went to his head; he did not realise that money does not go nearly as far here—especially in an expensive cavalry regiment. He kept polo ponies and racing ponies in Lucknow, and could not understand that he could not do the same at home. As to the bill, he is not suspicious, or sharp at reading character, and is staunch to old friends—or those he mistakes for friends—as in the case of young de Montfort. He had never heard what a ‘wrong un’ he turned out; they were at Eton——”

“Yes, I know—same house—same puppy-hole!” growled her uncle.

“And when Mr. de Montfort looked up Owen and told him a pathetic and plausible tale about his affairs, and swore on his word of honour that his signature was a mere formality—and——”

“Cleared off to Spain and left me to pay!” interposed Sir Richard, coming to a halt.

“Owen had to pay too,” retorted his sister, with a touch of bitterness.

“You mean that I made him leave the Service? Yes, I could not afford to go on supporting an extravagant young ass.”

“Owen is not brilliant, Uncle Dick, but he is no fool.”

“A fool and another man’s money are soon parted. Life was made too easy for the chap—very different to what I found it at his age. I had no hunters, no dozens of silk shirts, and rows of polo boots; I never was to be met lounging down Piccadilly as if the whole earth belonged to me.”

“Well, at least, Uncle Dick, you were never compelled to give up a profession you adored, when you were barely five-and-twenty.”

“I’ve given up a lot,” he answered forcibly, “and when I was older than him; but never mind me; we are talking of Owen. After leaving the Hussars, Kesters took him on, and got him a capital billet in the City—a nice soft berth, ten to four, but my gentleman could not stand an office stool and tall hat, and in five months he had chucked——”

Leila nodded. It was impossible to deny this indictment.

“So then it was my turn again; and I thought a little touch of real work would be good for the future Sir Owen Wynyard, and, after some trouble, I heard of a likely opening in the Argentine on the Valencia Estancia, well out of the way of towns and temptation—a horse-breeding ranch, too. You see I studied the fellow’s tastes, eh?” And Sir Richard twirled his eyeglasses by the string—a trick of his when he considered that he had scored a point.

“I gave him his passage and outfit, and put a few hundreds into the concern as a spec. and to insure him an interest, and within twelve months here he is back again on my hands—the proverbial rolling stone!” He cleared his throat, and continued: “Now, Leila, my girl, you have a head on your shoulders, and you know that these rolling stones find their way to the bottom, and I am going to block my specimen in good time. I suppose he told you what I said to him yesterday?”

“Yes; he came straight to Mount Street from seeing you.”

“He has got to shift for himself for two years, to earn his bread, with or without butter, to guarantee that he does not take a penny he has not worked for, that he does not get into debt or any matrimonial engagement; should he marry a chorus-girl, by Jove I’ll burn down Wynyard! If, by the end of that time, he turns up a steady, industrious, independent member of society, I will make him my agent—he shall have an adequate allowance, the house to live in, and most of my money when I am dead!”

Lady Kesters was about to speak, but with a hasty gesture her uncle interposed.

“I may as well add that I think myself safe in offering this prize, for it’s my belief that Owen will never win it. He has the family fever in his veins—the rage for gambling—and he is like the patriarch Reuben, ‘unstable as water and cannot excel.’ At the end of six months he will be penniless, and you and Kesters will have to come to his rescue; for my part I wash my hands of him.”

“Uncle Dick,” she said, rising, “I think you are too hard on Owen; he would not have come back from South America if he had not had a row with the manager of the Estancia: surely you could not expect an English gentleman—an Englishman—to stand by and see a poor woman nearly beaten to death?”

“Oh,” with an impatient whirl of his glasses, “the fellow has always as many excuses as an Irishman!”

“I think you are unjust,” she said, with a flash in her dark eyes. “I admit that Owen has been extravagant and foolish, but he was not worse, or half as bad, as many young men in his position. Are you quite determined? Won’t you give Owen another chance—or even half a chance?”

“No; his future is now in his own hands, and I stick to what I’ve said,” he declared, with irritable vehemence. “You came here, my clever Leila, to talk me over. Oh, you are good at that, but it’s no go this time! I am honestly giving the boy his only remedy. Let me see,” sitting down at his bureau, “what is the date? Yes—look here—I make an entry. I give Owen two years from to-day to work out his time—to-day is the thirty-first of March.”

“But why not wait until to-morrow, and make it the first of April?” suggested his niece, with a significant and seductive smile.

“Leila,” he spluttered, “I’m astonished at you! You jeer at me because I’m not disposed to keep your beloved brother as an ‘objêt de luxe,’ eh?”

“I don’t jeer, Uncle Dick, and I am sorry my tongue was too many for me; but I can see both sides of the question, and it is hard that, after indulging Owen as a boy, sending him to Eton, putting him into the Hussars, and letting him become accustomed to the Service, sport, and society, you suddenly pull up and throw him out in the world to sink or swim. What can he do?”

“That is for him to find out, and, since he wouldn’t pull up, I must.”

“Listen to me,” she said, rising and coming closer to him; “supposing Owen were to give you a promise in writing that he would stick steadily to one situation for two years, what would you say then?”

“I’d say that the promise would not be worth the paper it was written on!” he answered, with gruff emphasis. “Give me deeds, not documents.”

“Oh, so that is your opinion and your last word?”

“It’s my opinion—yes—but as to the last word, of course it’s your perquisite!” and he chuckled complacently.

Lady Kesters stood for a moment looking steadily at her uncle, and he as steadily at her. Then she slowly crossed the room and touched a bell to summon a footman, who presently ushered her out of the house.

CHAPTER IV
LEILA’S IDEA

As Lady Kesters motored home in her smart new Rolls-Royce, her expression was unusually grave; for once Uncle Dick had proved invulnerable, and she was overpowered with surprise; for her ladyship was so accustomed “to push the world before her,” to borrow an Irish expression, that any little resistance affected her in the nature of a shock.

Her brother was awaiting her in the smoking-room, and as she entered and threw off her furs, he said—

“So it was no go, Leila! Your embassy was a failure; defeat is written on your face—ahem—I told you so!”

“Now, Owen, I call this base ingratitude. I’ve wasted my whole morning fighting for you, I am worsted in the battle, and you receive me with grins and gibes!”

“You see, I can understand Uncle Dick’s attitude; he is pretty sick of me, and I don’t blame him; after all, when you come to think of it, why should he support a healthy, able-bodied duffer simply because he is his nephew?”

“Worse than that,” amended his sister, “his heir! I can understand his attitude even better than you, Owen. As a young man he never had any real fling, and could scarcely afford cabs and clothes or anything he wanted. He was hampered by a hopelessly extravagant father.”

“And now in his old age he is tormented by a spendthrift nephew.”

“Yes, and I can’t exactly explain; but I grasp the situation. You have had, what as a young man he never enjoyed—that is to say, a splendid time—and chiefly at his expense. He must feel just a little bit sore.”

“No; old Dick is a rattling good sort, and I don’t agree with you, Leila. It’s not so much the money he grudges, but that he thinks I’ll never do any good. I’ve no ballast. I’ve got to sally out into the world, like the hero in a fairy tale, and prove myself!”

“Yes, my dear brother; you practically start to-day, March the 31st, and do you know that I’ve got an idea,—and from Purdon, of all people. He is rather smart looking, and might pass for a gentleman, till he opens his mouth; besides, I happen to know that his mother lives in Fulham, and keeps a small greengrocer’s shop.”

“Yes, but your idea? You don’t want me to start in that line, do you?”

“No,” with an irrepressible smile; “I want you to become a chauffeur!”

“A chauffeur!” he repeated, subsiding into an adjacent arm-chair; “but why?”

“But why not?”

“Well, of course, I used to drive a car—and yes—your idea isn’t half bad; a chauffeur gets about the world for nothing, has fair pay, and, by all accounts, bar washing the car, a fairly good time.”

“You need not be thinking of a good time, Owen; but put all idea of amusement out of your head, and make up your mind that, during the next two years, you will be doing time—as a punishment for your crimes! Now, to be practical, you must have a certificate, and you and I will run into the country for the next day or two, and you shall drive the car; of course you are out of practice, and Purdon shall give you tips. I suppose you know all about magnetos, carburetters, and speed? I expect in a week you will qualify and pass, and there you are!”

“Yes, my lady, in a new black leather suit. I’ll do my best; I see you’ve fixed it up.”

She nodded assent. He was accustomed to Leila’s fixing up of his affairs, and never disputed her authority.

“You can take the car out in the morning, and get accustomed to the traffic. I think you will make an excellent chauffeur, as you have a strong head and no nerves.”

“Perhaps I may, and I’ve a sort of taste for mechanics. As a kid, you remember, I was mad to be an engine-driver.”

“Yes; you were always blowing things up, or breaking them down, or taking them to pieces.”

“I dare say I’ll have something of the breaking down and taking to pieces in my new career.”

“Only it’s so frightfully risky; you might go in for being an airman—that’s where you could make money!”

“Yes, with a two to one chance of breaking my neck.”

“Think of ten thousand pounds earned in a few hours! All the same it’s out of the question, I couldn’t bear the anxiety, it’s too dangerous; though I see the day coming when airships will displace motors, and I shall be flying over to Paris to dine and do a theatre.”

“Meanwhile, give me mother earth and a 60 h.p. car! Well, so it’s settled,” he said, jumping to his feet and tossing the stump of his cigarette into the fire; “yes, I’ll be a chauffeur all right—but what about the pay?”

“I expect you start at two guineas a week, with or without clothes, and find yourself.”

“A hundred a year, and an open-air billet! I say, I shall do splendidly. Leila, I feel that Uncle Dick’s prize is already in my hand.”

“Don’t be too sure of that! Bear in mind that some situations may not suit you, that you may not suit them, and be thrown out of employment.”

“That’s true; it has happened to me twice already—the Army and the ranch—and I’ve no luck.”

“What do you mean, Owen?”

“I mean that nothing comes my way; other chaps get all they want in big things, or little. Don’t you know the sort that fall across people they wish to meet, that get the best corners at a shoot, the best hands at cards, that win big sweepstakes and lotteries, come in for fine legacies, and, at a good old age, die very comfortably in their beds?”

His sister nodded.

“I have one peculiarity. I can’t call it gift, and it’s of no earthly value. I only wish it was marketable; I’d pass it on like a shot.”

“What is it—second sight?”

“No, that’s all bosh! It’s—it’s—I don’t know how to put it—the being on the spot when out-of-the-way affairs come off,—sensational things, accidents, discoveries, deaths. They seem to drop into my day’s work in an extraordinary way; sometimes I begin to think I’ve got the Evil Eye!”

“Now that’s nonsense if you like! You have knocked about a good deal for the last seven years, and naturally seen far more than people at home.”

“Well, anyhow, I wish this queer sort of fate would change, and shove me towards something different—a good post.”

“And you believe you’d keep it?”

“Anyway, I’d do my little best. My three weeks as steward were a breaking-in.”

“But you were acting all the time, Owen—you know you love it! and you realised that there was a limit to the experience?”

“No, honour bright, I wasn’t playing the fool. I am quick and ready, and not afraid of work. I say, look here,” and he took his hands out of his pockets and held them up, the palms towards her.

“Oh, oh, my poor dear boy! they are like—like—leather! Like a working man’s, only clean!”

“Well, I never was a kid-glove chap, and the reins have hardly been out of them for twelve months. I’m fairly good with my hands, although an awful duffer with my head.”

“Just the opposite to me,” declared his sister; “I can scarcely sew a button on, and I can’t do up a parcel or tie a knot. But to return to our business. Once you have a certificate, the next thing will be to find you a situation. You had better begin in some very quiet country place—a long way from Town and talk—and I will recommend you.”

“You!” and he burst into a loud laugh.

“Oh yes, you may laugh; but who else is there? We do not wish to invite the world into our family laundry.”

“Thank you, Leila.”

“Don’t be silly! I will give you an excellent character,” she continued imperturbably, “as a sober, respectable young man, most careful, obliging, and anxious to please.”

“Well, that sounds all right.”

“And you must really be, as the French advertisements say, ‘un chauffeur sérieux,’ and promise not to play the fool, and I shall get you a nice situation that I happen to know of, with two old ladies.”

“O Lord!” he expostulated; “can’t you make it a couple of old gentlemen? I’d much rather go to them.”

“Yes, no doubt you would,” she answered; “but you cannot pick and choose, and this place seems the very one for a start. These are the two Miss Parretts.”

“I say, what a name! Any cats?”