It is the middle of July, but the London season has not, as yet, shown any symptoms of being on the wane, and the drawing-room of the Honourable Mrs Carnaby-Hicks is arranged for the reception of visitors. Curtains of guipure lace, looped with pale-blue ribbons, shroud every window, purple irises and yellow jonquils as displayed in art needlework, adorn each chair and sofa; fanciful little tables of silk and velvet, laden with Sevres and Dresden china are placed in everybody’s way, and a powerful odour of hot-house flowers pervades the apartment. A double knock sounds at the door, and the Honourable Mrs Carnaby-Hicks starts from the dose into which she has fallen, and seizing a novel, sits upright, and pretends that she is deep in its contents. But she need not have been so punctilious, for the footman, throwing open the door, announces her brother, Mr Tresham. Roland enters the room, looking fagged, dusty, and out of sorts, a complete contrast to the dainty adornments of his sister’s drawing-room. ‘Well, Roland!’ exclaims Mrs Carnaby-Hicks, ‘and what is your news? It is an age since we have seen you! I was beginning to think you must have made away with yourself.’ ‘No such luck,’ replies her brother, moodily, ‘though I believe it would be the best thing that I could do.’ He is a handsome man of only thirty years of age, but the look of care upon his brow makes him appear older. His dress is not exactly shabby, but it is the dress of a needy gentleman, and did not issue from the tailor’s hands this season, nor even last. ‘How are you all at home?’ continues the lady. ‘Just the same as usual; a medley of dirt, ill-management, and unpunctuality! I dread to enter the house.’ ‘Ah! Roland, it is too late to advise you now, but that marriage was the worst day’s work you ever did. Not thirty till September, and with a wife and six children on your hands. It is a terrible misfortune!’ ‘And two hundred a-year on which to support them,’ laughs Mr Tresham, bitterly. ‘Don’t speak of it, Valeria, unless you wish to drive me mad. And to add to my troubles I have just received this letter;’ tossing it over to her. ‘Who is it from?’ ‘Lady Tresham! Her generosity seems to be on a par with his! You see how she writes me word that Sir Ralph is in Switzerland mountain-climbing with Handley Harcourt, but that if he were at home she fears he would be unlikely to comply with my request.’ ‘Did you ask Ralph for money then?’ ‘Not as a gift. I wrote to him for a loan of fifty pounds, to carry on the war, but of course I should regard it as a debt. The fact is, Valeria, I don’t know where to look for money; my profession brings me in nothing, and we cannot live on the miserable pittance my father left me. It is simply impossible!’