e cannot
without loss of dignity turn the nimble sixpence. The genial peer who
had recently inherited the Manor, together with most of the ground-rents
of the surrounding district, was no exception to the rule, and he had no
objection to having his great rambling mansion and its appurtenances
"kept up" at some one else's expense.

The consequence was that Mr. Montague Maynard found himself housed for
the summer almost _en prince_. Not that he was unaccustomed to luxury.
Both in his splendid modern villa at Harborne, whence a thousand pound
Mercedes car rushed him daily to his office in Birmingham, and at his
London house in Park Lane, where he spent six weeks in the spring, he
wanted for nothing that money can do for the assuagement of the sordid
side of a commercial magnate's life. But at neither of those palatial
abodes could he enjoy the sense of space, the glamour of feudal
importance, and the pretence at majestic isolation which were included
in the heavy rental he paid for the privilege of occupying Ottermouth
Manor House.

It was approached on one side by a long carriage-drive under an avenue
of ancient elms, and halfway up this Leslie Chermside saw three people
advancing towards him--a rather incongruous trio. No need for him to
look twice at the tall girl in the simple white blouse swinging along
with the graceful vigour of youth a little behind the other two. The
sight of her set his pulses beating, for it was Violet Maynard herself,
and Leslie felt sick with remorse at the glad smile of recognition she
gave him. The remaining pair in this strangely-assorted party consisted
of a diminutive old lady severely dressed in black, and of a
foreign-looking man wearing ragged blue cotton trousers, who slouched
along barefooted, carrying over his shoulder a stick from which
depended several strings of onions.

The old lady appeared to be driving the foreigner before her at the
point of her sunshade, while Violet entered an occasional half-laughing
protest against her proceedings.

Chermside raised his hat as he drew near, and with a torrent of abuse
and a final prod of her sunshade, the owner of the latter abandoned
the pursuit, the two ladies turning to walk back to the house with the
invited guest.

"No wonder you are astonished at Aunt Sarah's behaviour, Mr. Chermside,"
said Violet gaily. "She has been frightening that poor French
onion-seller out of his wits and warning him off the premises for some
reason t