It was a perfect afternoon, and Hurlingham was crowded. Every seat bordering the polo ground was occupied, and the brilliant hues of hats, gowns, and parasols made a sort of ribbon border to the brilliant green turf. Mr. West—a fussy or punctual man, according to people’s point of view—had arrived early with his party, and, so to speak, planted his fair charges under one of the umbrella awnings, and in a most central and commanding situation, where Madeline, in a white costume, which set off her vivid dark beauty, was seen and greeted by many acquaintances. Lord Montycute, Captain Vansittart, and a smart lady friend (Mrs. Veryphast) shared the shade of the canvas umbrella, and spasmodically proffered morsels of the latest and choicest news, for the polo was absorbing, the match very fast and closely contested, the excitement intense. During an interval Lady Rachel drifted near—clad in a rainbow costume, and talking volubly and emphatically to a man. Her quick, roving eye caught sight of Madeline’s comfortable little party, and she swept down upon her at once.

“Oh, Maddie, my dear girl, how nice and cool you look, and I’m half dead, standing baking in the sun, and not a chair to be had for love or money! Ah, you have two to spare, I see! Here—here is actually one for you.” She called to her escort, who had stopped to speak to a passing friend. “Madeline,” she continued, “I think you know Mr. Wynne, who writes. Mr. Wynne, Miss West is one of your greatest admirers! She knows all your stories by heart.”

This was a fiction, invented on the spur of the moment. Her ladyship coined many a little lie.

Madeline looked up bewildered. The gentleman who was taking off his hat to her was—Laurence!—and yet not Laurence. What had he done to himself? He had discarded his beard, and was fashionably clean-shaven; moreover he was fashionably dressed in the orthodox long frock-coat, and wore a flower in his buttonhole, and the most absolutely correct gloves and tie.

So much depends upon the style, shape, and colour of a man’s tie—and the very maker’s name! A rashly selected tie may stamp a man’s taste quite as fatally as the wrong number and pattern of buttons proclaim the date of his coat!

The removal of his beard had entirely changed Laurence Wynne’s appearance. He looked much younger: he had a very square chin, his mouth was expressive—more sarcastic than smiling—with thin, firmly closed, but well-cut lips. Had she known of that mouth and chin, had she guessed at them—well, she would have thought twice before she married their proprietor. As she looked up she coloured to her hair when she met his steady, cool glance. This meeting was no surprise to him, for he had noted the entrée of the beauty, her marvellous costume, and her train of admirers. He had not, however, intended to come to such close quarters. He was taken unawares when he found himself in her neighbourhood, and he was determined to escape immediately, in spite of Lady Rachel. The silence that followed Lady Rachel’s loud prattle was becoming noticeable, and curious eyes were turned upon him when he said very distinctly—

“I don’t know if I am so fortunate as to be remembered by—Miss West?”

“Oh yes,” she answered, rather obviously avoiding looking at him, with a bright patch of colour on either cheek.

“Miss West has such an enormous acquaintance of young men that she must get a little confused sometimes—a little mixed, don’t you, Maddie? Now, Mr. Wynne, I see what you are up to,” said Lady Rachel; “but no, you shall not run away. Here, sit upon this chair. I had great difficulty in capturing you, you are so run-after and spoilt, and now I am not going to let you desert. You ought to be thankful for a seat in the shade, and amongst such pleasant company!” As he reluctantly seated himself at the very outskirts of the group, she continued—“Now, you must not sit there looking like a snared animal, watching for some chance of escape. Do tell me all about the heroine of your last story. How is it that you are so familiar with all our little ways, and weaknesses? You know too much. One would almost suppose that you were a married man!”

“I think it must be time to go to tea,” said Madeline, glancing appealingly at her father, who had just joined them.

“Tea! Don’t you wish you may get it! There is not a single vacant table on the lawn. I’ve just been to look. Hullo! Ah—er—Wynne, how do you do?”

Mr. Wynne had been pointed out to him as a rising junior at the bar—a coming man in literature, who wielded an able pen, and was quite one of the season’s minor celebrities. His sketches were a feature of the day—a short one, naturally. Every one was talking of him.

Mr. West loved a celebrity—if he was gentlemanly and in good society, bien entendu—nearly as much as he loved a lord, but not quite; and he added—

“I remember you were at our house last winter, and you are interested in paintings and art. You must look us up, eh?—and come and dine.”

“Thank you. You are very kind.”

“We’ve just come back from the Riviera. Delightful place! Were you ever there?”

“No, I’ve never been nearer to it than Lyons.”

“But I’ve been there,” broke in Lady Rachel; “and I shall never go again, on account of the earthquakes, although it was capital fun at the time.”

“Fun!” repeated Mr. West, with a look of amazement.

“Yes, half the refugees were running about in blankets fastened with hairpins, afraid to return for their clothes. Oh, they were too absurd! A whole train full went to Paris in their dressing-gowns—some in bare feet. Every one was different—‘out of themselves,’ as they say in France. One old lady, in her mad excitement in speeding some relations, actually tore off her wig and waved it after them.”

“Poor old dear! How she must have regretted it subsequently!” said Lord Montycute. “My sister was there at the same time, and paid twenty pounds a night for the luxury of sleeping in the hotel omnibus. Nothing would induce her to go to bed indoors. The hotel was cracked from top to bottom!”

“I don’t care for the Riviera,” remarked Lady Rachel. “It’s too hot, and the scenery is ridiculously gaudy. It always reminded me of a drop-scene. I declare to you, sitting on a promenade, facing the blue sea and blue sky, and pale, buff promontories and palms, with a band playing in the neighbourhood, I have felt as if I was in the stalls of a theatre.”

“Oh, shame!” cried Mrs. Leach. “You have no feeling for the beauties of Nature.”

“I thought Monte Carlo lovely—the garden too exquisite for words.”

“And the tables?” inquired Mr. West significantly.

“Yes, I had my own pet table; and at first I was successful. I always went on the ‘doz-ens,’ or ‘passe.’ One day I made ninety pounds in an hour; but, alas! I lost it all in about ten minutes.”

“The tables always do win in the long run,” said Mr. West, sententiously.

“Yes,” agreed Lord Montycute, “they have no feeling, no emotions. When they gain they are not excited; when they lose they are not depressed; and this is their advantage.”

“Oh, but they cannot leave off if they are losing,” cried Lady Rachel. “We score there.”

“You did not score, at any rate,” remarked Mrs. Leach, with a smile.

“No; I wish I had left off. There is Mrs. Raymond Tufto. Did you see her at Nice, Madeline?”

“Oh yes; she went everywhere.”

“She is wearing that same flower toque. I am so sick of it,” cried Mrs. Veryphast, impatiently.

“Nevertheless she is one of the prettiest women in London,” observed Captain Vansittart. “She has such a saintly expression, and she looks so good.”

“She is a horribly heartless wretch. She goes off for months on the Continent, and leaves her children to nurses at home,” said Lady Rachel, viciously. “She has one dear little tot of two, that actually does not know her by sight.”

“It is quite the French fashion to board out babies,” remarked Mrs. Leach, who was invariably in opposition to Lady Rachel.

“Turn them out to walk like young hounds,” drawled Captain Vansittart.

“Mrs. Tufto, bad as she may be, is nothing to Lady Blazer,” continued Mrs. Leach, impressively. “She has a nursery full of girls, and yet, what do you think? When she was asked the other day to subscribe to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, she said, ‘Delighted! There is only one species of animal I loathe, and that’s a child.’”

“Oh, I say—come! I don’t believe that,” cried Mr. West, “of any woman—or even a man. I’m rather partial to nice small children myself.”

“Mr. Wynne,” said Lady Rachel, turning on him suddenly, “why are you so silent? You know it is your métier to talk.”

“Then why do you grudge me a well-earned holiday?” he asked imperturbably.

“I believe you are studying us for your next sketch; taking us in your literary kodak.”

“No, indeed! I am not a reporter for a society paper.”

“Oh, I don’t mean about our dresses and hats, or that; I mean character sketches.”

“How I should like to sit to you for mine!” said Mrs. Veryphast, vivaciously, moving her chair an inch or two nearer to his. “I do wish you would make a study of me, and put me in one of your charming stories or dialogues.”

“It would have a fabulous circulation if you were the heroine,” said Lord Montycute, with a bow.

Mrs. Veryphast smiled, well pleased. She was not always able to distinguish between impertinence and flattery. Mrs. Veryphast was evidently anxious to annex another ladies’ friend, who had edged himself so far away that he was quite an outsider. But he would not be appropriated, neither could he effect his escape.

“Mr. Wynne,” said Lady Rachel, briskly, “you are up in all the principal subjects of the day. Do tell us what you think of the new woman.”

“That she will be an old woman in a few years.”

“So shall I. You are meanly evading the question.”

“I think——Let me think again.”

“You mean, let me dream again. You seem to be half asleep this afternoon. Well?”

“On reflection, I consider that she is a devastating social influence.”

“That can be read in two ways, you wary fox. What is your opinion of the emancipation of women—wives especially?”

“Upon my word! Lady Rachel, I must protest!” he answered, with a somewhat fixed smile. “You are endeavouring to obtain my opinion gratis. I cannot afford it. How am I to live?”

Meanwhile Madeline, looking rather pale, listened furtively to this passage of arms.

“I think you are too horrid. At any-rate, it cannot hurt your pocket to tell me if you approve of the higher education of my sex.”

“No; I prefer the ancient Greek mode—complete isolation, wool-spinning, and no books.”

“Gracious! I shall pity your wife.”

His eyes and Madeline’s met for one half-second all the way across Lady Rachel’s bonnet and Captain Vansittart’s broad shoulders. Then he stood up.

“What—going? Oh, Mr. Wynne!” protested his captor, with a little scream.

“I am extremely sorry; but I really must. I see a man over there that I want to speak to particularly; and I shall lose sight of him if I don’t look sharp.” And taking off his hat with a comprehensive smile, he was gone.

Yes, Madeline watched him under her parasol. He looked as well as any one—in fact, quite distinguished. She wondered vaguely who was his tailor.

Then people began to discuss him, and she gathered by a word from Mrs. Veryphast, and another from Captain Vansittart, that the general opinion of Laurence Wynne was highly favourable.

“Of fine old stock, but poor; but brains, and good race, ought to bring him something,” said Mrs. Leach.

“An heiress!” suggested Mrs. Veryphast, with a giggle. “And now I propose that we do adjourn, and go to tea.”

From a distance Laurence noted the party en route to refreshments, Madeline and Lord Montycute bringing up the rear. She belonged to another world than his, there was no room in her life for him and Harry. As he had chafed in Lady Rachel’s chains, he had caught snatches of the conversation of the butterflies who fluttered round his wife. He heard of balls, river parties, rides, picnics. He was aware that Miss West’s society was in immense demand; he caught one laughing announcement “that she had four engagements for the next evening, and not a spare hour for the next three weeks.”

Not long after that, as he and a friend were walking down to Parsons Green station, they were passed by a splendid carriage, which gave a glimpse of two frothy-looking parasols, and two tall hats.

“There goes Miss West,” explained his companion, “the Australian heiress and beauty, with Lord Tony on the back seat. I hear it is quite settled, they are to be married in the autumn.”

“Are they? Who is your authority?”

“I can’t say; it’s in the air. I wonder she was not snapped up, long ago, for although old West is about as common as they make ’em, yet every one allows that his daughter is charming.”