“Well, I hope he has recovered his equilibrium by now. Why, we never met till eight o’clock.” “He rarely goes anywhere. He is just a money-spinner--enormously rich--he can make money, but he does not know how to spend or enjoy it.” “That’s easily learnt,” declared the young lady, with a gay laugh; “I’d give him lessons with pleasure.” “Oh, my dear, it is not so easy to spend, when you have the habit of years of economy. His wife was terribly close; they say she counted the potatoes and matches! She was his cousin, and had a nice fortune.” “So, then, he is a widower?” “Yes, this five years; he lives alone in Eaton Square--such a frowzy house--it has never known a spring cleaning! Mrs. Kesters and I exchanged calls. She would not allow the windows to be opened; loved King Charles dogs (horrid things) and parrots; dressed on thirty pounds a year; and her only extravagance was patent medicines. The premises simply reeked of them! Latterly, she was a helpless invalid, and since her death Mr. Kesters goes nowhere, just occupies a couple of rooms, and devotes himself to business. Business is his pleasure. He is a mighty man in the City--though he is so shy and reserved in society. I declare you quite woke him up to-night; I’ve known him for years, and I never saw him so animated.” “I suppose I hit on a lucky topic--he told me such interesting things about mining and minerals.” “_Gold_ especially; they say everything he touches turns to that! My husband and he are rather friendly, and once or twice he has dined with us, scarcely uttered a word, and looked as if he was going to sleep. Oh, here they are!” as the door opened, and the two ladies on the sofa suddenly concluded a mysterious and confidential conversation, and sat expectant and erect. But the men as one man made straight for Miss Wynyard. Later, as the guests departed, Mr. Kesters lingered to the last, and his host said fussily-- “I say, look here, Martin, I suppose you have your carriage, and you may as well take my niece home; you are going in her direction.” “My dear uncle, why should you victimise Mr. Kesters?” she protested; “I shall return as I came, in a hansom.” But Mr. Kesters intervened with unexpected gallantry, and declared that to escort Miss Wynyard was an honour that he could not forgo. Subsequently he conducted her down to a shabby, “one-horse” brougham--the coachman’s legs were wrapped in a specially odoriferous stable rug--and conveyed her to Eaton Terrace. As he took leave of her at the hall door, he ventured to put a timid question. He was such a near neighbour--might he come and call? “Yes, of course,” assented the lady; “Aunt Eliza will be delighted to see you--we are always at home on Sundays, four to six.” Subsequently Mr. Kesters became a regular visitor, and met with Aunt Eliza’s approval; and, before many Sundays had elapsed, a paragraph concerning the names of Wynyard and Kesters appeared in the _Morning Post_.