tia, clapping her hands.

'Rink in my hall!' cried the millionaire, scandalised; and then, seeing
Horatia's twinkling eyes, he laughed his hoarse laugh, and said, 'You'd
have Sykes after you if you did. What do you want to rink for? Senseless
pastime, I call it. Now, skating I can understand; it's healthy exercise,
and you might make use of it in cold countries; but rinking--what's the
use on't?'

'Oh, it's such fun! I do love it so!' cried Horatia.

'Well, now, if it's like that, I'll see what we can do. I am afraid I
can't get a rink built for you in a day, but I'll see what we can do. For
to-night, you'll have to put up with the opera,' said Mr Clay
good-naturedly.

Horatia thanked him profusely, and after he had left she said to Sarah,
'Oh Sarah, you _are_ rich! I'm sorry I ever came here to stay with you.'

'Why?' inquired Sarah quickly, as the colour mounted to her forehead, for
she expected that Horatia was going to say that she did not like people
who made such a display of wealth.

'Because I sha'n't be contented to be just middlingly well off after
this, and I never wanted to be rich before; but your father can do
everything he likes,' she cried enthusiastically.

'Oh no, he can't,' retorted Sarah.

'What can't he do?' demanded Horatia.

Sarah paused for a moment. She could not very well say what was in her
mind, which was that he could not make himself a gentleman, so she said
instead, 'He can't buy people's affection, for one thing.'

Horatia gave Sarah one of her quick, quizzical glances, but only replied,
'I don't know so much about that. There's cupboard-love, at any rate; but
never mind, let's go and listen to this opera. It's a lovely way of
spending the evening,' she added, for Sarah's face had taken on its
disdainful expression again.

So the two sat down at the gramophone to listen to Tetrazzini singing in
the opera, and Mrs Clay went off to her husband's study to take advantage
of his being in a good humour to spend the hour with the husband she
worshipped, although she feared him, and had none too happy a life with
him.

Mr Clay was smoking a short clay-pipe. If Sarah had been there she
probably would have said that another thing that he could not do was to
enjoy refined things, or give himself refined tastes, for one of Mark
Clay's greatest enjoyments was to smoke his short clay-pipe and the
rankest of rank tobacco, though he only did so in private.

'She's a nice young lady, Mark,