be; a low-born adventurer, a _parvenu_ of the worst
type."

"I think I have read something about him in the newspapers," said Ida,
thoughtfully.

Mr. Heron emitted a low snarl.

"No doubt; he is one whom the world delights to honour; it bows before
the successful charlatan, and cringes to his ill-gotten wealth. I'm
told that such a man is received, yes, and welcomed by society.
Society! The word is a misnomer. In my time a man of that class was
kept at arm's-length, was relegated to his proper place--the back hall;
but now"--he gazed angrily at the paper--"here is a whole column
describing Sir Stephen Orme's new 'palatial villa,' and giving an
account of his achievements, the success of his great undertakings. And
this man has chosen to build his eyesore on Heron lands, within sight
of the house which--which he would not have been permitted to enter. If
I had known, I would not have sold the land."

"But you wanted the money, father," she said, gently.

He looked at her swiftly, and a change came over his face, a look of
caution, almost of cunning.

"Eh? Yes, yes, of course I wanted it. But he knew I should not have
sold it for building on; that is why he got Bowden, the farmer, to buy
it. It was like him: only such a man can be capable of such an
underhand act. And now I suppose he will be welcomed by his neighbours,
and the Vaynes and the Bannerdales, and made much of. They'll eat his
dinners, and their women will go to his balls and concerts--they whose
fathers would have refused to sit at the same table with him. But there
is one house at which he will not be welcome; one man who will not
acknowledge him, who will not cross the threshold of Sir Stephen Orme's
brand-new palace, or invite him to enter his own. He shall not darken
the doors of Heron Hall."

He rose as he spoke and left the room with a quicker step than usual.
But half an hour later when Ida went into the library she found him
absorbed in his books as usual, and he only glanced up at her with
absent, unseeing eyes, as she stood beside him putting on her gloves,
her habit skirt caught up under her elbow, the old felt hat just a
little askew on the soft, silky hair.

"Do you want anything before I go out, father?" she asked.

"No, no!" he replied abstractedly, and bending over his book again as
he answered. Ida crossed the hall in the sunlight, which lit up her
beauty and made it seem a more striking contrast than usual to the dull
and grim su