suppose the girl knows who I am,' he said to himself, for
although he had a very good idea of his intrinsic worth, he knew that
his wealth ranked first among his merits.

But on after occasions when Lesbia had been told all that could be told
to the advantage of Mr. Smithson, she accepted his homage with the same
indifference, and treated him with less favour than she accorded to the
ruined guardsmen and younger sons who were dying for her.

CHAPTER XXVI.

'PROUD CAN I NEVER BE OF WHAT I HATE.'

It was a Saturday afternoon, and even in that great world which has no
occupation in life except to amuse itself, whose days are all holidays,
there is a sort of exceptional flavour, a kind of extra excitement on
Saturday afternoons, distinguished by polo matches at Hurlingham, just
as Saturday evenings are by the production of new plays at fashionable
theatres. There was a great military polo match for this particular
Saturday--Lancers against Dragoons. It was a lovely June afternoon, and
Hurlingham would be at its best. The cool greensward, the branching
trees, the flowing river, would afford an unspeakable relief after the
block of carriages in Bond Street and the heated air of London, where
even the parks felt baked and arid; and to Hurlingham Lady Kirkbank
drove directly after luncheon.

Lesbia leaned back in the barouche listening calmly, while her chaperon
expatiated upon the wealth and possessions of Horace Smithson. It was
now ten days since the meeting at Ascot, and Mr. Smithson had contrived
to see a great deal of Lesbia in that short time. He was invited almost
everywhere, and he had haunted her at afternoon and evening parties; he
had supped in Arlington Street after the opera; he had played cards with
Lesbia, and had enjoyed the felicity of winning her money. His
admiration was obvious, and there was a seriousness in his manner of
pursuing her which showed that, in Lady Kirkbank's unromantic
phraseology, 'the man meant business.'

'Smithson is caught at last, and I am glad of it,' said Georgie.

'The creature is an abominable flirt, and has broken more hearts than
any man in London. He was all but the death of one of the dearest girls
I know.'

'Mr. Smithson breaks hearts!' exclaimed Lesbia, languidly. 'I should not
have thought that was in his line. Mr. Smithson is not an Adonis, nor
are his manners particularly fascinating.'

'My child how fresh you are! Do you suppose it is the handsome men or