he failing still exists, doesn't it?" said her husband; "or do
you suppose a reform of character is entailed along with the estate?"

"Oh, of course, there is still that drawback," admitted the wife, "but
one would like to make the acquaintance of the future head of the family,
if only out of mere curiosity. Besides, cynicism apart, his being rich
will make a difference in the way people will look at his failing. When
a man is absolutely wealthy, not merely well-to-do, all suspicion of
sordid motive naturally disappears; the thing becomes merely a tiresome
malady."

Wilfrid Pigeoncote had suddenly become heir to his uncle, Sir Wilfrid
Pigeoncote, on the death of his cousin, Major Wilfrid Pigeoncote, who had
succumbed to the after-effects of a polo accident. (A Wilfrid Pigeoncote
had covered himself with honours in the course of Marlborough's
campaigns, and the name Wilfrid had been a baptismal weakness in the
family ever since.) The new heir to the family dignity and estates was a
young man of about five-and-twenty, who was known more by reputation than
by person to a wide circle of cousins and kinsfolk. And the reputation
was an unpleasant one. The numerous other Wilfrids in the family were
distinguished one from another chiefly by the names of their residences
or professions, as Wilfrid of Hubbledown, and young Wilfrid the Gunner,
but this particular scion was known by the ignominious and expressive
label of Wilfrid the Snatcher. From his late schooldays onward he had
been possessed by an acute and obstinate form of kleptomania; he had the
acquisitive instinct of the collector without any of the collector's
discrimination. Anything that was smaller and more portable than a
sideboard, and above the value of ninepence, had an irresistible
attraction for him, provided that it fulfilled the necessary condition of
belonging to some one else. On the rare occasions when he was included
in a country-house party, it was usual and almost necessary for his host,
or some member of the family, to make a friendly inquisition through his
baggage on the eve of his departure, to see if he had packed up "by
mistake" any one else's property. The search usually produced a large
and varied yield.

"This is funny," said Peter Pigeoncote to his wife, some half-hour after
their conversation; "here's a telegram from Wilfrid, saying he's passing
through here in his motor, and would like to stop and pay us his
respects. Can stay fo