ter, poor as a church mouse, who, very considerately,
had proceeded to die of a fever in Southern Italy. Mrs. Lane had, to a
large extent, arranged the forthcoming marriage with Charles Barthrop,
I think. In the interests of the whole family Cynthia had been
'sensible'; she had been brought to see reason.

'And, mind you,' said Lane, 'I do think Barthrop is an excellent chap,
you know. Oh, yes; he's quite a cut above your average city man. And a
kinder-hearted chap you never met. The pater swears by him.'

I gathered that 'the pater' had been given the most useful information
and guidance in financial matters by this Apollo of Throgmorton
Street.

'He's modest, too,' continued Lane, 'which is unusual in his type, I
think. He told me his favourite reading was detective stories, outside
the sporting and financial news, of course; but he has the greatest
respect for Cynthia's literary tastes-- You know she has published
some verse? Yes. Not in book form, but in some of the better
magazines. Oh, yes, Barthrop's a good chap: simple-minded, a shade
gross, too, perhaps, in some ways. These chaps in the city do
themselves too well, I think. But quite a good chap, and sure to make
an excellent husband. I fancy his kind do, you know--no tension, no
fret, no introspection.'

Again I made signs of agreement which were not strictly honest.

On Sunday afternoon we both drank our tea under the copper beeches at
Deene Place. I deliberately monopolised Cynthia's attention as long as
I possibly could, and then devoted myself to the cold-blooded study of
the man she was to marry. I found him very good-natured, gifted with
abundant high spirits, agreeably modest, and, as it seemed to me,
intellectually about on a par with a race-horse or a handsome St.
Bernard dog.

'Cynthia tells me we are to bully you into coming out of your
hermitage,' he said to me with a sunny smile. 'A good idea, too, you
know. After all, being a recluse can't be good for one's health; and I
suppose if a man isn't fit, it tells--er--even in literary work,
doesn't it?'

I felt towards him as one feels towards some bright, handsome
schoolboy. And yet, in many ways, I doubt not he had more of wisdom
than I had. I had spoken to Cynthia of Leith Hill, and she had said
that, when staying at Deene Place, she walked almost every day either
on the hill or the common. Upon that I had relinquished her attention
with a fair grace.

Of course, I was entirely unused to