such a leaden weight at his heart; but a prosaic consideration decided him. "There'll be a good tea, at least, and if I make myself very agreeable, perhaps they'll ask me to stay to dinner. Besides, I may get to know some people who'll employ me."
He dressed himself carefully, and sallied forth; informing the servant of his destination, in case anybody should send for him. Despite his thin cheeks, there was not a better-looking man at "The Dene" that afternoon; for he looked a gentleman to the backbone, and as such, his hostess—who was very short of men—smiled upon him graciously.
"So glad you were able to come," she cooed. "Miss Waller," to the spinster, who had just arrived, "may I introduce my friend, Dr. Inglis?"
"I have already made his acquaintance," was the suave answer; and then Harold, to his surprise, was greeted by Mrs. Burnside, looking very fair and sweet in a cool white linen gown. He had not expected to meet her; he naturally supposed her place to be by the bedside of her sick child. In truth, she was only present at her aunt's urgent entreaty.
"I'm afraid she must be rather heartless," thought the young doctor, feeling oddly disappointed. He had not hitherto attributed want of feeling to the owner of those pathetic blue eyes. Nevertheless, as sets were being made up, he asked her to be his partner, she being famed in Beachbourne as a tennis-player.
She complied; but the set was not a success. He could not have believed that Mrs. Burnside could play so badly; they were beaten by six games to two.
"I am so sorry," she said humbly, as they quitted the court. "I know it was all my fault; but I really couldn't play—I was thinking of Doris all the time."
Her lips quivered, so that he could no longer imagine her heartless. "Your little girl will be well in a few days—there is really no cause for anxiety," he answered gently, angry with himself for having misjudged her.
"That is what Aunt Caroline says, and she insisted on my coming," plaintively returned May; but just then Miss Waller appeared, resplendent in mauve satin, with a stout, black-haired, middle-aged, and shrewd-looking man, very carefully dressed, in tow.
"I came to look for you, dear," she began very sweetly to her niece, merely giving a cold bow to Harold. "I want to introduce Mr. Lang to you. He knows our friends the Wingates in town."
With that, the excellent spinster turned away; and May, finding no resource save to accept the basket-chair in the shade proffered by the stranger—as Harold had prudently effaced himself—prepared for a tête-à-tête with a man she had never seen before in her life.
"It was very kind of you to come so promptly, Dr. Inglis."
CHAPTER III.
"Manners Maketh Man."
"Do you mind my smoking?" began Mr. Lang, after a moment's keen scrutiny of the graceful figure beside him. Hardly waiting for permission, he produced a gold case and lighted a cigarette. "Been playing tennis, haven't you?" he continued in an off-hand way. "Stupid game, not half so good as golf—you should try golf."
"I have tried it, and I don't like it."
"Beginners seldom do. It's a fine game, for all that. You live with your aunt, don't you?"
"Yes, in Victoria Square."
"Do you like Beachbourne?"
She hesitated a moment before replying, "Yes."
"I suppose it's like all these provincial towns—heaps of gossip and scandal, eh? But you should be in London now, Mrs. Burnside. There hasn't been as gay a season for years. I shouldn't be here now, I can tell you, but I got a touch of fever last time I was at Johannesburg, and, as I can't quite shake it off, my doctor ordered me complete rest for a fortnight. So I came down here to stay with the Stevensons. I met them last year at Homburg, and ever since they've been pestering me with invitations to Beachbourne."
The set was not a success.—p. 399.
"Oh, have you been out in Africa?" returned May, thinking it best to ignore his flattering reference to his entertainers.
"Spent nearly twenty years there. I can remember when there wasn't a gold mine on the Randt. And, though I've come back to England for good now, I generally run over about twice a year. It's just a nice little trip to the Cape, and they really do you very well on the mail steamers," he condescendingly added, as he lighted another cigarette. "By-the-bye, this case is made of African gold—a nugget I found myself in the claim which was the beginning of the Springkloof Mine. You've heard of the Springkloof, of course?"
She shook her head, and he looked at her with evident pity for her ignorance. "I didn't think there was anybody nowadays who hadn't heard of the Springkloof!"
"I'm afraid you'll think us rather behind the times at Beachbourne," she said, as she rose, hoping to shake off her new acquaintance; but he rose, too, and kept by her side as she strolled through the beautiful grounds, speaking first to one friend and then to another.
"Not many pretty girls here, I must say," he observed disparagingly, as they approached the house, in quest of the tea-room.
"Are you an admirer of beauty?" asked May, with a rather sarcastic glance at his tubby figure.
"Quite so. I love the best of everything there is. As soon as I can find a girl pretty enough, I intend to marry," he replied with perfect gravity. "It's rather lonely all by myself in Palace Gardens. Do you like the Palace Gardens houses, Mrs. Burnside?"
"I've never been in one, and I don't even know where they are. I know very little about London, and very few people there—just the Wingates, and one or two others."
"Are the Wingates any relation?"
"Oh, no, only old friends of my aunt's. I hardly know them."
"Well, it's not much loss. I don't mean any disrespect to your aunt, but old Mother Wingate isn't a woman I should ever wish to confide in, myself. She's always trying to catch me for one of her plain daughters—dear Maggie or dear Amy! By the way, what's your Christian name, Mrs. Burnside?"
"May."
"And, by Jove, it suits you! So often girls' names don't. You find Lily as black as a crow, and Rose as sallow as she can be, and Queenie a little, insignificant dowdy with a turned-up nose!"
He talked in this carping strain while he consumed a fair amount of refreshments, none of which, however, were good enough for his critical taste. He evidently thought a great deal about eating and drinking, for he incidentally mentioned that he gave his chef two hundred a year.
"What a waste!" was on the tip of May's tongue, as she thought how useful even a tenth of that sum would be to herself. The tea was cosily set out on a number of little tables in the spacious, old-fashioned dining-room. Gay groups were seated at each, and not far off was Harold Inglis, talking cheerfully with two of his host's daughters. May glanced from him to her companion, noticing how common and plebeian Mr. Lang looked when contrasted with him.
As she quitted the table Harold, who had apparently been lying in wait, crossed over to speak to her. "Would you like to play again, Mrs. Burnside? I can easily make up a set, if you wish."
But at this moment appeared Miss Waller, apparently from nowhere, to throw cold water on the proposal. "I think you had better not run about any more this hot afternoon, love. You really must not tempt her, Dr. Inglis."
"There's