, it does not follow
that she knows whether he can play polo. However, as he is not
playing, it is a matter of very little account whether he can or no."

"Quite right. Nothing is much in this world, except the weather and
the cooks. The sun shines to-day; and whatever the rest of us are
called upon to endure, Mrs. Wriothesley, I know, can always rely upon
her soup and _entrees_. I always look upon it as rather good of you to
dine out."

It was probable that such judicious remarks had done Mr. Cottrell good
service in the early part of his career; but now he was the fashion,
and realised his position most thoroughly.

"Very pretty of you to recognize the fact that my poor little
kitchenmaid is not a barbarian," rejoined Mrs. Wriothesley.

She also had her foible, and always spoke in disparaging tones of her
establishment. She would ask her friends to take a cutlet with her, or
to come and eat cold chicken with her after the play, but took good
care that the menu should be of very different calibre. She, like
Pansey Cottrell, was the fashion, and he knew it. Besides, not only
was the lady a favourite of his, but he never would have permitted
himself to commit the folly of quarrelling with any one who so
thoroughly understood the mysteries of gastronomy.

But now, clad in white flannels, butcher-boots, and scarlet caps, a
couple of players make their appearance, and walk their sturdy little
steeds up the ground; another and another quickly follow, and soon the
contending sides group themselves together at opposite ends of the
enclosure. The Monmouthshire quintet in their all white and scarlet
caps are faced by the Hussars in their blue and scarlet hoops. The
umpire walks to the centre, glances round to the captains of either
side to see that they are all in readiness, and then drops the ball.
Quick as thought the contending teams are in motion, the "players up"
of each party scudding as fast as their wiry little ponies can carry
them for the first stroke. It is a close thing; but the white and
scarlet obtains the first chance, and by some fatality misses the ball.
Another second, and Jim Bloxam has sent it flying towards the
Monmouthshire goal, and is pelting along in hot pursuit, only to see
the ball come whizzing back past him from a steady drive by one of the
adversary's back-players. Backwards and forwards flies the ball, and
the clever little ponies, at the guidance of their riders, bustle now
this w