h things, but was not responsible for the work. A
survival himself, and steeped in ancient opinions, his coat, won in a
forgotten age, interested him only less than his Mutiny medal--his sole
personal claim to public honor. He had served in youth as a soldier, but
was still a subaltern when his father died and he came into his kingdom.

Now, Sir Walter Lennox, fifth baronet, had grown old, and his invincible
kindness of heart, his archaic principles, his great wealth, and the
limited experiences of reality, for which such wealth was responsible,
left him a popular and respected man. Yet he aroused much exasperation
in local landowners from his generosity and scorn of all economic
principles; and while his tenants held him the very exemplar of a
landlord, and his servants worshipped him for the best possible reasons,
his friends, weary of remonstrance, were forced to forgive his bad
precedents and a mistaken liberality quite beyond the power of the
average unfortunate who lives by his land. But he managed his great
manor in his own lavish way, and marvelled that other men declared
difficulties with problems he so readily solved. That night, after a
little music, the Chadlands' house party drifted to the billiard-room,
and while most of the men, after a heavy day far afield, were content to
lounge by a great open hearth where a wood fire burned, Sir Walter, who
had been on a pony most of the time, declared himself unwearied, and
demanded a game.

"No excuses, Henry," he said; and turned to a young man lounging in an
easy-chair outside the fireside circle.

The youth started. His eyes had been fixed on a woman sitting beside the
fire, with her hand in a man's. It was such an attitude as sophisticated
lovers would only assume in private but the pair were not sophisticated
and lovers still, though married. They lacked self-consciousness, and
the husband liked to feel his wife's hand in his. After all, a thing
impossible until you are married may be quite seemly afterwards, and
none of their amiable elders regarded their devotion with cynicism.

"All right, uncle!" said Henry Lennox.

He rose--a big fellow with heavy shoulders, a clean-shaven, youthful
face, and flaxen hair. He had been handsome, save for a nose with a
broken bridge, but his pale brown eyes were fine, and his firm mouth and
chin well modelled. Imagination and reflection marked his countenance.

Sir Walter claimed thirty points on his scoring board, and g