rett, there is no doubt he was not so attentive to it as he ought to
have been.

His own opinion about the intentions of Providence was that they had
been frustrated--by Debrett chiefly. If they had fructified he would
have been the Librarian of the Bodleian. Providence also had in view for
him a marvellous collection of violins, unlimited Chinese porcelain, and
some very choice samples of Italian majolica. But he would have been
left to the undisturbed enjoyment of his treasures. He could have passed
a peaceful life gloating over Pynsons and Caxtons, and Wynkyn de Wordes,
and Grolier binding, and Stradivarius, and Guarnerius, and Ming, and
Maestro Giorgio of Gubbio. But Debrett got wind of the intentions of
Providence, and clapped a coronet upon the head of their intended
_beneficiaire_ without so much as with your leave or by your leave, and
there he was--an Earl! He had all that mere possessions could bestow,
but always with a sense that Debrett, round the corner, was keeping an
eye on him. He had to assuage that gentleman--or principle, or lexicon,
or analysis, whatever he is!--and he did it, though rather grudgingly,
to please his Countess, and from a general sense that when a duty is a
bore, it ought to be complied with. His Countess was the handsome lady
with the rings whom Dave Wardle had taken for a drive in her own
carriage.

This sidelight on the Earl is as much illumination as the story wants,
for the moment. The sidelight on the terrace of Ancester Towers, at the
end of a day in July following the winter of Dave's accident, was no
more than the Towers thought their due after standing out all day
against a grey sky, in a drift of warm, small rain that made oilskins
and mackintoshes an inevitable Purgatory inside; and beds of lakes, when
horizontal, outside. It was a rainbow-making gleam at the end of
thirty-six depressing hours, bursting through a cloud-rift in the South
with the exclamation--the Poet might have imagined--"Make the most of
me while you can; I shan't last."

To make the most of it was the clear duty of the owner of a golden head
of hair like that of Lady Gwendolen, the Earl's second daughter. So she
brought the head out into the rainbow dazzle, with the hair on it,
almost before the rain stopped; and, indeed, braved a shower of jewels
the rosebush at the terrace window drenched her with, coming out. What
did it matter?--when it was so hot in spite of the rain. Besides, India
muslin dries s