making the most of your fortune, and all that sort of thing?"

"There ain't no place in this country big enough to hold me long. I could
swaller all the oxygen in the Strand in one gulp."

Featherstone laughed amusedly.

"London isn't England. It's a growth upon the land. There is still Wales,
Scotland, Devonshire----"

"Ah, Devonshire! Now, that is some pretty little garden, I agree."

"Oh, you like it?"

"Sure."

"So do I. Wish I might live there always, but one must consider one's
family, and Bond Street and the Opera have their attractions for the young
people. That is why I am selling the Devonshire place. Can't let good
property lie unoccupied, and letting is so devilishly unsatisfactory."

He was congratulating himself he had wrapped that pill up not so badly for
an unbusiness-like man. Jim took the bait quite well, too. He didn't want
to buy any property, but he wasn't averse to keeping on the right side of
Featherstone. Where Featherstone was there was Angela, and he might extend
negotiations over months of time and then "turn down" the proposition if
he felt like it.

"Say, is that property sold yet?" he queried casually.

"No. It was only recently that I decided to sell. I have another country
place in Kent, much more convenient."

"Mebbe I could see it?"

"Certainly. My agent will be pleased to show you over."

As an afterthought he added: "Better still, we are spending a fortnight
there, and I should be happy if you would spend the time with us. You
could--ah--then examine the place at your leisure."

Jim's eyes glistened. The prospect of a fortnight in close proximity to
Angela--it was magnificent, unbelievable! He strove to control his
eagerness.

"I'll be sure pleased," he said.

Jim went home with his brain in a whirl. Love had come, late, but with
tremendous fury. He gained no sleep that night. The star of his desire
shone like a mocking mirage before his mind's eye. It was all impossible,
hopeless, but to love and lose were better than to live in ignorance of
life's strongest passion. To dally with the impossible were sheer madness,
he knew that. But what was to be done but obey the yearnings of his heart,
though it brought its own revenge?

The next morning saw Featherstone in a perfectly angelic mood. The cause
was soon revealed.

"My dear," he confided to his wife, "I have sold Little Badholme."

"Claude!"

"Ah, I thought that would come in the nature of a surprise."

"B