wines--there was a Sybarite in Meadows which revelled in them all. He
had done without them; he would do without them again; but there they
were exceedingly good creatures of God, while they lasted; and only the
hypocrites pretended otherwise. His sympathy, in the old
poverty-stricken days, would have been all with the plaintive
American--"There's d-----d good times in the world, and I ain't in
'em."

All the same, the fleshpots of Pitlochry had by no means put his wife
out of his mind. His incurable laziness and procrastination in small
things had led him to let slip post after post; but that very morning,
at any rate, he had really written her a decent letter. And he was
beginning to be anxious to hear from her about the yachting plan. If
Lady Dunstable had asked him a few days later, he was not sure he would
have accepted so readily. After all, the voyage might be stormy, and the
lady--difficult. Doris must be dull in London,--"poor little cat!"

But then a very natural wrath returned upon him. Why on earth had she
stayed behind? No doubt Lady Dunstable was formidable, but so was Doris
in her own way. "She'd soon have held her own. Lady D. would have had to
come to terms!" However, he remembered with some compunction that Doris
did seem to have been a good deal neglected at Crosby Ledgers, and that
he had not done much to help her.

* * * * *

It was an "off" day for the shooters, and Lady Dunstable's guests were
lounging about the garden, writing letters or playing a little leisurely
golf on the lower reaches of the moor. Some of the ladies, indeed, had
not yet appeared downstairs; a sleepy heat reigned over the valley with