ot to see the season
out. It would be little short of a crime to miss Goodwood. He might go
out with Decies to India in the autumn, when that young soldier's leave
had expired, and look Guy up a bit. He would rather like a turn at
pig-sticking--and there were plenty of pig, he understood, in the
neighbourhood of Agra, where his brother was now stationed. On the
morning in question, Lord Shotover, in excellent spirits, had walked
down Piccadilly with his father, from his rooms in Jermyn Street to
Albert Gate. The elder gentleman, arriving from Westchurch by an early
train, had solaced himself with a share of the by no means ascetic
breakfast of which his eldest son was partaking at a little after
half-past ten. It was very much too good a breakfast for a person in
Lord Shotover's existing financial position--so indeed were the
rooms--so, in respect of locality, was Jermyn Street itself. Lord
Fallowfeild knew this, no man better. Yet he was genuinely pleased,
impressed even, by the luxury with which his erring son was surrounded,
and proceeded to praise his cook, praise his valet's waiting at table,
praise some fine old sporting prints upon the wall. He went so far,
indeed, as to chuckle discreetly--immaculately faithful husband though
he was--over certain photographs of ladies, more fair and kind than
wise, which were stuck in the frame of the looking-glass over the
chimneypiece. In return for which acts of good-fellowship Lord Shotover
accompanied him as far as the steps of the mansion in Albert Gate.
There he paused, remarking with the most disarming frankness:--

"I would come in. I want to awfully, I assure you. I quite agree with
you about all this affair, you know, and I should uncommonly like to
let the others know it. But, between ourselves, Louisa's been so short
with me lately, so infernally short--if you'll pardon my saying
so--that it's become downright disagreeable to me to run across her. So
I'm afraid I might only make matters worse all round, don't you know,
if I put in an appearance this morning."

"Has she, though?" ejaculated Lord Fallowfeild, in reference presumably
to his eldest daughter's reported shortness. "My dear boy, don't think
of it. I wouldn't have you exposed to unnecessary unpleasantness on any
account."

Then, as he followed the groom-of-the-chambers up the bare, white,
marble staircase--which struck almost vaultlike in its chill and
silence, after the heat and glare and turmoil of the