be read indoors, but in the open air its blush betrays it. So he
shook his head, and muttered, "If you pass an Observer, send him on
here at once to me."

A polite stranger who sat close to us turned round with a pleasant
smile. "Would you allow me to offer you one?" he said, drawing a
copy from his pocket. "I fancy I bought the last. There's a run
on them to-day, you see. Important news this morning from the
Transvaal."

Charles raised his eyebrows, and accepted it, as I thought, just a
trifle grumpily. So, to remove the false impression his surliness
might produce on so benevolent a mind, I entered into conversation
with the polite stranger. He was a man of middle age, and medium
height, with a cultivated air, and a pair of gold pince-nez; his
eyes were sharp; his voice was refined; he dropped into talk before
long about distinguished people just then in Brighton. It was clear
at once that he was hand in glove with many of the very best kind.
We compared notes as to Nice, Rome, Florence, Cairo. Our new
acquaintance had scores of friends in common with us, it seemed;
indeed, our circles so largely coincided, that I wondered we had
never happened till then to knock up against one another.

"And Sir Charles Vandrift, the great African millionaire," he said
at last, "do you know anything of _him_? I'm told he's at present
down here at the Metropole."

I waved my hand towards the person in question.

"_This_ is Sir Charles Vandrift," I answered, with proprietary pride;
"and _I_ am his brother-in-law, Mr. Seymour Wentworth."

"Oh, indeed!" the stranger answered, with a curious air of drawing
in his horns. I wondered whether he had just been going to pretend
he knew Sir Charles, or whether perchance he was on the point of
saying something highly uncomplimentary, and was glad to have
escaped it.

By this time, however, Charles laid down the paper and chimed into
our conversation. I could see at once from his mollified tone that
the news from the Transvaal was favourable to his operations in
Cloetedorp Golcondas. He was therefore in a friendly and affable
temper. His whole manner changed at once. He grew polite in return
to the polite stranger. Besides, we knew the man moved in the best
society; he had acquaintances whom Amelia was most anxious to secure
for her "At Homes" in Mayfair--young Faith, the novelist, and Sir
Richard Montrose, the great Arctic traveller. As for the painters,
it was clear that he was sworn