‘Hit again,’ exclaimed Wrentham with a frank laugh. ‘I believe you are right; but we cannot all be philosophers. Nature has most to do in forming us, whatever share education may have in it. Where the dickens did you pick up your philosophy? In the east, west, north, or south? Have you been a traveller for pleasure or on business? Where have you been? What have you done, that you should be able always to see the sunny side of life? There’s a string of questions for you. Don’t trouble to answer them, although I should like if possible to learn how you became what you are—so calm, so happy.’ All this was spoken so good-humouredly—as if it were the outcome of nothing more than jesting curiosity—that Wrentham fancied he had very cleverly turned to useful account a passing observation. His host could not avoid giving him some direct information about his career now. Mr Beecham appeared to be amused—nothing more. ‘I have travelled in many directions of the compass, partly on business, partly on pleasure. Everywhere I have found that although the scenes are different, men are the same. Those who have had a fortune made for them spend it, wisely or unwisely as may be; those who have not, strive or wish to strive to make one for themselves. Some succeed, some fail: but the conditions of happiness are the same in either case—those who are the most easily content are the most happy.’ ‘Beaten,’ thought Wrentham. ‘What a clever beggar he is in answering the most direct questions with vague generalities.’ What he said was this: ‘I suppose that you had a fortune made for you, and so could take things easy?’ ‘A little was left to me, but I am glad to say not enough to permit me to be idle. I cannot say that I have worked hard, but I worked in the right direction, and the result has been satisfactory—that is, so far as money is concerned.’ ‘Wish you would give me a leaf out of your book: it might start me in the right direction too.’ ‘Some day you shall have the whole book to read, Mr Wrentham, and I shall be delighted if you find it of service.’ ‘But what line were you in? I should like to know.’ ‘So you shall, so you shall—by-and-by.—You have allowed your cigar to go out. Try one of these Larranagas; and excuse me for a minute—I want to send this away.’ He took up the packet which Wrentham had observed lying on the desk, and quitted the room. ‘Wish I could make him out,’ was Wrentham’s reflection, as, after lighting his cigar, he stood on the hearth with his back to the fire and glared round the room in search of something that might help to satisfy his curiosity. ‘Maybe there is nothing to make out.... But what does he want sending off letters to Madge Heathcote at this time of evening? I saw the address plainly enough, and that letter was for her.... There _is_ something to find out.’ (_To be continued._) THE ASHBURNHAM COLLECTIONS.