e accuracy of Lacey's
"beach photographer." On the genus it would have been a libel; for the
species it was exact. I saw him with his velveteens, his hair, his
collar--against a background of paper-littered sands and "nigger
minstrels"; the picture recalled childhood, but without the proper
sentimental appeal.

I was right. We had to walk up and down the terrace in front of the
house for a long while. Lacey talked all the time--his views, his
regiment, sports, races, what not. From the top of my mind--the surface
responsive to externals--I answered. Within I was following in
imagination the struggle of my dear, wayward, unreasonable mistress--of
her who wanted both ways, who would lead half a dozen lives, and unite
under her sway kingdoms between which there could be neither union nor
alliance.

It was almost five o'clock by the time Fillingford came out; the sun had
begun to lose power; the peace of evening--and something of its
chill--rested on the billowing curves of turf and the gently swaying
treetops. As we saw him we came to a standstill, and so awaited his
approach.

Under no circumstances, I imagine, could Lord Fillingford have looked
radiant. Even any overt appearance of triumph his taste, no less than
his nature, would have rejected; and his taste was infallible in
negatives. Yet on his face, as he came to us, there was unmistakable
satisfaction; he had done quite as well as he had expected--or even
better. I was glad--with a sharp pang of sorrow for the limitations of
human gladness. In my heart I should have been glad for Jenny to be
allowed to break rules--to have it all ways--as she wanted--for as long
as she wanted. There was the moral slope of which I have before made
metaphorical mention!

He greeted me with a cordiality very marked for him, and laid a hand on
his son's shoulder affectionately. "I've kept you a terribly long time,
Amyas, and we mustn't bother Miss Driver any more. She's tired, I fear.
We'll go home for a cup of tea."

Lacey was excited and anxious, but he knew his father better than to put
even the most veiled question to him in my presence.

"All right, sir. Austin's been looking after me first-rate."

I could not be mistaken; a touch of ownership over me--the hint of a
right to approve of me--came into Fillingford's voice. I seemed to feel
myself adopted as a retainer--or, at least, my past services to one of
the family acknowledged.

"I'm sure Mr. Austin is always most ki