Sarah had distributed the prizes, I made a little speech on my
chief's behalf--a speech of welcome to county and to town. Fillingford
replied first, his speech was like himself--proper, cold, composed. Then
Bindlecombe got up, mopping his forehead--the Mayor was apt to get
hot--but making no mean appearance with his British solidity of figure,
his shrewd face, and his sturdy respect for the office he exercised by
the will of his fellow-citizens.

"My lords, ladies, and gentlemen--as Mayor of Catsford I have just one
word to say on behalf of the borough. We thank the generous lady who has
welcomed us here to-day. We look forward to welcoming her when she's
ready for us. All Catsford men are proud of Nicholas Driver. He did a
great deal for us--maybe we did something for him. He wasn't a man of
words, but he was proud of the borough as the borough was proud of him.
From what I hear, I think we shall be proud of Miss Driver, too--and I
hope she'll be proud of the borough as her father was before her. We
wish her long life and prosperity."

Bravo, Bindlecombe! But Lady Sarah looked astonishingly sour. There was
something almost feudal in the relationship which the Mayor's words
suggested. Jenny as Overlord of Catsford would not be to Lady Sarah's
liking.

I got rid of them; I beg pardon--they civilly dismissed me. Only young
Lacey had for me a word of more than formality. He did me the honor to
ask my opinion--as from one gentleman to another.

"I say, do you think Octon had a right to say that?"

"The retort was justifiable--strictly."

"He need hardly----"

"No, he needn't."

"Well, good-by, Mr. Austin. I say--I'd like to come and see you. Are you
ever at home in the evenings?"

"Always just now. I should be delighted to see you."

"Evenings at the Manor aren't very lively," he remarked ingenuously.
"And I've left school for good, you know."

The last words seemed to refer--distantly--to Leonard Octon. Without
returning to that disturbing subject I repeated my invitation and then,
comparatively free from my responsibilities, repaired alone to the
terrace.

Octon was still there--extended on three chairs, smoking and drinking a
whisky and soda. I asked him about his travels--he was just back from
the recesses of Africa (if there are, truly, any recesses left)--but
gained small satisfaction. His predominant intellectual interest
was--insects! He would hunt a beetle from latitude to latitude, and by
no means