onest effort. Try to bear that
in mind, you young gentleman,"--this, genially, to Godfrey Ormiston.
"Not half a bad rule to start in life with, to go on as you begin, you
know."

"Always provided you start right, you know, my dear fellow," Shotover
observed, patting the boy's shoulder with his disengaged hand, and
looking at the boy's mother with a humorous suggestion of
self-depreciation. Now, as formerly, he entertained the very
friendliest sentiments towards all good women, yet maintained an
expensively extensive acquaintance with women to whom that adjective is
not generically applicable.

But Lord Fallowfeild was fairly under weigh. Words flowed from him,
careless of comment or of interruption. He was innocently and
conspicuously happy. He had enjoyed a fine day's sport in company with
his favourite son, whose financial embarrassments were not, it may be
added, just now in a critical condition. And then, access of material
prosperity had recently come to Lord Fallowfeild in the shape of a
considerable coal-producing property in the North of Midlandshire. The
income derived from this--amounting to from ten to twelve thousand a
year--was payable to him during his lifetime, with remainder, on trust,
in equal shares to all his children. There were good horses in the
Whitney stables now, and no question of making shift to let the house
in Belgrave Square for the season, while the amiable nobleman's
banking-account showed a far from despicable balance. And consciousness
of this last fact formed an agreeable undercurrent to his every
thought. Therefore was he even more than usually garrulous according to
his own kindly and innocent fashion.

"Very hospitable and friendly of you and Cathcart, to be sure," he
continued, "to throw open your house in this way. Kindness alike to man
and beast, man and beast, for which my son and I are naturally very
grateful."

Lord Shotover looked at Mary again, smiling.--"Little mixed that
statement, isn't it," he said, "unless we take for granted that I'm the
beast?"

"I was a good deal perplexed, I own, Mrs. Cathcart, as to how we should
get home without giving the horses a rest and having them gruelled.
Fourteen miles----"

"A precious long fourteen too," put in Shotover.

"So it is," his father agreed, "a long fourteen. And my horse was
pumped, regularly pumped. I can't bear to see a horse as done as that.
It distresses me, downright distresses me. Hate to over-press a horse.