This was in the calm and peaceful days of croquet, before people had learned to perspire profusely over lawn-tennis as they flew into wild attitudes and dressed for the popular work. This was croquet _a la Watteau_, and in the midst of the absence of play, Lord Barmouth came slowly down the path, stepped upon the soft lawn as soon as possible, and, choosing a garden seat in a comfortably shady nook, he sat down and began to tenderly rub his leg. "Heigho!" he sighed; "they, they--they say an Englishman's house is his castle. If it is, his wife's the elephant--white elephant. Why--why don't they go on playing? Ha, there's Tom starting," he continued, putting up his glasses. "I'd give five hundred pounds to be able to stoop and pick up a ball like that young Charley Melton--a strong, straight-backed young villain. And there's my son Tom, too. How he can run! I'd give another five hundred pounds, if I'd got it, to be able to run across the grass like my son Tom. It strikes me, yes, damme, it strikes me that my son Tom's making up to little Tryphie. Well, and he's no fool if he does." The game went on now for a few minutes, and then there was another halt. "I said so to Tom on the morning of Di's wedding," said the old gentleman, caressing his leg; "and that Charley Melton is making up to Maudey, damme that he is, and--and--and--damme, she's smiling at him, bless her, as sure as I'm a martyr to the gout." There were a few more strokes, and as many pauses, during which the old gentleman watched the players in their laurel-sheltered ground with his double glasses to his eye. "Let me see, her ladyship said he was one of the Mowbray Meltons, but he isn't. He belongs to the poor branch, but I didn't contradict her ladyship; it makes her angry. He, he, he, he! It's--its--it's very fine to be young and good-looking, and--and--damme, Tom, you young dog," he continued, chuckling, "I can see through your tricks. He's--he's-- he's always knocking Tryphie's ball in amongst the bushes, and then they have to go out of sight to find it." The old man chuckled and shook his head till a twinge of the gout made him wince, when he stooped down and had another rub. "Why--why--why," he chuckled again directly after, "damme, damme, if young Charley Melton isn't doing the same. He has knocked Maudey's ball in amongst the laurels, and--oh--oh--oh--you wicked young rogues-- they're coming to look for it." He got up and toddled towards the young couple, patting Maude on the cheek, and giving Charley Melton a poke in the side. "I--I--I--see through you both," he said, laughing. "Won't do--won't do. Both as transparent as glass, and I can see your hearts playing such a tune." He crossed to another garden seat, and sat down, putting his leg up in a comfortable position. "There," said Melton, earnestly. "You see we have both in our favour. Your father would not refuse."