"You'll be bored to death--I give you six months," were Miss Batchelor's
parting words, murmured aside over her shoulder.

On their way home Stanistreet congratulated Tyson.

"By Jove! you've fallen on your feet, Tyson. They tell me Miss Batchelor
is interested in you."

"I am not interested in Miss Batchelor. Who is she?"

"She is only Miss Batchelor of Meriden Court--the richest land-owner in
Leicestershire."

"Good heavens! Why doesn't somebody marry her?"

"Miss Batchelor, they say, is much too clever for that."

"Is she?" And Tyson laughed, a little brutally.

* * * * *

Of course everybody called on the eccentric newcomer when they saw that
the Morleys had taken him up. But before they had time to ask each other
to meet him, Mr. Nevill Tyson had imported his own society from Putney or
Bohemia, or some of those places.

That was his first mistake.

The next was his marriage. In fact, for a man in Tyson's insecure
position, it was more than a mistake; it was madness. He ought to have