set was not a success.—p. 399.
"Oh, have you been out in Africa?" returned May, thinking it best to ignore his flattering reference to his entertainers.
"Spent nearly twenty years there. I can remember when there wasn't a gold mine on the Randt. And, though I've come back to England for good now, I generally run over about twice a year. It's just a nice little trip to the Cape, and they really do you very well on the mail steamers," he condescendingly added, as he lighted another cigarette. "By-the-bye, this case is made of African gold—a nugget I found myself in the claim which was the beginning of the Springkloof Mine. You've heard of the Springkloof, of course?"
She shook her head, and he looked at her with evident pity for her ignorance. "I didn't think there was anybody nowadays who hadn't heard of the Springkloof!"
"I'm afraid you'll think us rather behind the times at Beachbourne," she said, as she rose, hoping to shake off her new acquaintance; but he rose, too, and kept by her side as she strolled through the beautiful grounds, speaking first to one friend and then to another.
"Not many pretty girls here, I must say," he observed disparagingly, as they approached the house, in quest of the tea-room.
"Are you an admirer of beauty?" asked May, with a rather sarcastic glance at his tubby figure.
"Quite so. I love the best of everything there is. As soon as I can find a girl pretty enough, I intend to marry," he replied with perfect gravity. "It's rather lonely all by myself in Palace Gardens. Do you like the Palace Gardens houses, Mrs. Burnside?"
"I've never been in one, and I don't even know where they are. I know very little about London, and very few people there—just the Wingates, and one or two others."
"Are the Wingates any relation?"
"Oh, no, only old friends of my aunt's. I hardly know them."
"Well, it's not much loss. I don't mean any disrespect to your aunt, but old Mother Wingate isn't a woman I should ever wish to confide in, myself. She's always trying to catch me for one of her plain daughters—dear Maggie or dear Amy! By the way, what's your Christian name, Mrs. Burnside?"
"May."
"And, by Jove, it suits you! So often girls' names don't. You find Lily as black as a crow, and Rose as sallow as she can be, and Queenie a little, insignificant dowdy with a turned-up nose!"
He talked in this carping strain while he consumed a fair amount of refreshments, none of which, however, were good enough for his critical taste. He evidently thought a great deal about eating and drinking, for he incidentally mentioned that he gave his chef two hundred a year.
"What a waste!" was on the tip of May's tongue, as she thought how useful even a tenth of that sum would be to herself. The tea was cosily set out on a number of little tables in the spacious, old-fashioned dining-room. Gay groups were seated at each, and not far off was Harold Inglis, talking cheerfully with two of his host's daughters. May glanced from him to her companion, noticing how common and plebeian Mr. Lang looked when contrasted with him.
As she quitted the table Harold, who had apparently been lying in wait, crossed over to speak to her. "Would you like to play again, Mrs. Burnside? I can easily make up a set, if you wish."
But at this moment appeared Miss Waller, apparently from nowhere, to throw cold water on the proposal. "I think you had better not run about any more this hot afternoon, love. You really must not tempt her, Dr. Inglis."
"There's croquet," suggested Harold; "shall we play at that?"
And, though in general she detested croquet, May assented quite eagerly, only anxious to shake off Mr. Lang. Miss Waller could not well interfere again, and Mr. Lang did not play croquet, but he and the spinster sat on a garden seat close by till the game was finished, rendering it difficult for Harold to say a word which the watchful pair did not overhear. Divining from her erratic play that May's mind was still running upon her sick child, he seized the opportunity, when they were both searching for a ball which had rolled into the shrubbery, to say kindly: "Don't fret about Doris. I assure you there's no need. The malady must run its course, and she'll be all right afterwards. Only you must be careful she doesn't get a chill."
"I wish she could have you to attend her, instead of Dr. Ellis. She detests him because he once deceived her about a powder she had to take. But my aunt likes him——"
"I believe he is a very clever man," hurriedly interposed Harold, mindful of professional etiquette. "Doris will be quite safe with him; indeed, she hardly needs a doctor."
"My aunt is always at home on Tuesdays—I hope you will come to see us," responded May, grateful for his manifest sympathy. She knew he had few friends in Beachbourne, and resolved to do what she could to introduce him.
His face lighted up unmistakably. "Thank you so much, Mrs. Burnside! I shall be delighted to come, and I'll not forget Tuesday."
Miss Waller was in a most complacent frame of mind as they drove home through the beautiful June evening. "What a fortunate thing I forbade you to be so foolish as to stay at home to nurse Doris!" she began. "Mr. Lang is a man worth knowing; he made an enormous fortune in South Africa—a million at least—and Mrs. Stevenson says his house in Palace Gardens is simply lovely. I'll ask him to dinner, to meet some nice people."
May's delicate face flushed. "He's not a gentleman!" she said.
"I daresay he was not of much extraction originally, but what does that matter nowadays? Money levels all distinctions; and I can see Mrs. Stevenson would be only too glad to catch him for Edith."
"I thought his manner insufferably rude!"
"My dear, that's because he's so run after in London; it always spoils a man to have dozens of girls angling for him. But he was undoubtedly struck by you; and I don't think you were very wise to go and play croquet with that Dr. Inglis as you did. He has agreeable manners, but he has not a penny-piece; and I don't believe he'll ever get a practice here."
"I'm sorry for him, aunt, and—and I thought it only civil to ask him to call——"
Miss Waller's brow contracted. "I think you might have consulted me first. At best he is only a detrimental, and there are far too many here already; but you always were quixotic, May!"
CHAPTER IV.
Lulu.
Whit Sunday—which was late that year—was simply glorious, the heat being tempered by a delicious sea breeze. A vivacious, dark-eyed girl, who accompanied Harold Inglis along the parade after morning service, stopped again and again to gloat over the sapphire sea, tumbling in, foam-crested. "How jolly for you, Harold, living in this delicious place!" she exclaimed. "You ought to look better than you do; you are much thinner than you were."
He evaded the subject, not wishing to sadden his favourite sister, Lulu, with his shifts and privations. She had come down to Beachbourne
