y, a big place
and all that, but odd. She and I get on well together--I am her pet, I
suppose I may say--but, by Jove, she has quarreled with everyone else in
the family. I let her have her own way and it has convinced her that I
am the only rational Heathcroft in existence. Do you golf, Knowles?"

"I attempt something in that line. I doubt if my efforts should be
called golf."

"It is a rotten game when one is off form, isn't it. If you are down
in Sussex and I chance to be there I should be glad to have you play an
eighteen with me. Burglestone Bogs is the village. Anyone will direct
you to the Manor. If I'm not there, introduce yourself to my aunt. Lady
Kent Carey is the name. She'll be jolly glad to welcome you if you
tell her you know me. I'm her sole interest in life, the greenhouses
excepted, of course. Cultivating roses and rearing me are her hobbies."

I thought it improbable that the golfers of Burglestone Bogs would ever
be put to shame by the brilliancy of my game. I thanked him, however.
I was surprised at the invitation. I had been under the impression,
derived from my reading, that the average Englishman required an
acquaintance of several months before proffering hospitality. No doubt
Mr. Heathcroft was not an average Englishman.

"Will you be in London long?" he asked. "I suppose not. You're probably
off on a hurricane jaunt from one end of the Continent to the other. Two
hours at Stratford, bowing before Shakespeare's tomb, a Derby through
the cathedral towns, and then the Channel boat, eh? That's the American
way, isn't it?"

"It is not our way," I replied. "We have no itinerary. I don't know
where we may go or how long we shall stay."

Evidently I rose again in his estimation.

"Have you picked your hotel in London?" he inquired.

"No. I shall be glad of any help you may be kind enough to give along
that line."

He reflected. "There's a decent little hotel in Mayfair," he said, after
a moment. "A private sort of shop. I don't use it myself; generally put
up at the club, I mean to say. But my aunt and my sisters do. They're
quite mad about it. It is--Ah--Bancroft's--that's it, Bancroft's Hotel.
I'll give you the address before I leave."

I thanked him again. He was certainly trying to be kind. No doubt the
kindness was due to his sense of obligation engendered by what he called
my "professional information," but it was kindness all the same.

The first bugle for luncheon sounded. Mr. Heat