"Mr. Joyce is quite wealthy," said Miss Smeardon. "I understand that
he is an only son too, and will some day inherit a fine property.
Miss Meredith is most fortunate, at her age and with her history."

Robinette said nothing. She looked out at the glistening reaches of
the river, now shining through the silver mist; at the fields yellow
with buttercups, and the folds of the distant hills. As they drove up
the lane to the house, the birds, refreshed by the rain, were singing
like angels. In her heart too, something was singing as blithely as
any bird amongst them all.

"Sometimes, sometimes our mistakes do not come home to roost!" she
thought, "but fly away and make nests elsewhere--rich nests in India
too!"

"How did you enjoy the party, Cousin Robin?" said Carnaby, who
was waiting for them in the doorway. "I had a good tuck-in of
strawberries. The ladies were a little young for my taste; just
immature girls; no one under sixty, and rather frisky, don't you
think? By the way did you see Number One and her millionaire?"

"I don't know what you mean by Number One," said Robinette, haughtily,
as she passed in at the door.

"You will, when you're Number Two!" rejoined Carnaby, stooping to
pinch Lord Roberts' tail till the hero yelped aloud.

XVI

TWO LETTERS

Lavendar tore up his fourth sheet of paper and began afresh. "Dear
Mrs. Loring." No, that would not do; he took another sheet, and began
again:--

"My dear Mrs. Loring,--Your commission for old Mrs. Prettyman has
taken some little time to execute, for I had to go to two or three
shops before finding a chair 'with green cushions, and a wide seat, so
comfortable that it would almost act as an anaesthetic if her
rheumatism happened to be bad, and yet quite suitable for a cottage
room.' These were my orders, I think, and like all your orders they
demand something better than the mere perfunctory observance. My own
proportions differing a good deal from those of the old lady, it is
still an open question whether what seemed comfortable to me will be
quite the same to her. I can but hope so, and the chair will be
dispatched at once.

"London is noisy and dusty, and grimy and stuffy, and, to one man at
least, very, very dull. A boat on Greenshaw ferry seems the only spot
in the world where any gaiety is to be found. You can hear the cuckoos
calling across the river as you read this, no doubt, and Carnaby is
rendered happier than he deserves by being a