“I am,” impressively; “and what’s one man’s loss is another man’s gain. It will be all the better for you, Laurence, since you are so bent upon the woolsack. I’ll give you a heave-up with pleasure. You will now get all Bagge and Keepe’s business, for one thing--and, let me tell you, that that is no trifle.” CHAPTER XXXIII. “ONE OF YOUR GREATEST ADMIRERS.” It was a perfect afternoon, and Hurlingham was crowded. Every seat bordering the polo ground was occupied, and the brilliant hues of hats, gowns, and parasols made a sort of ribbon border to the brilliant green turf. Mr. West--a fussy or punctual man, according to people’s point of view--had arrived early with his party, and, so to speak, planted his fair charges under one of the umbrella awnings, and in a most central and commanding situation, where Madeline, in a white costume, which set off her vivid dark beauty, was seen and greeted by many acquaintances. Lord Montycute, Captain Vansittart, and a smart lady friend (Mrs. Veryphast) shared the shade of the canvas umbrella, and spasmodically proffered morsels of the latest and choicest news, for the polo was absorbing, the match very fast and closely contested, the excitement intense. During an interval Lady Rachel drifted near--clad in a rainbow costume, and talking volubly and emphatically to a man. Her quick, roving eye caught sight of Madeline’s comfortable little party, and she swept down upon her at once. “Oh, Maddie, my dear girl, how nice and cool you look, and I’m half dead, standing baking in the sun, and not a chair to be had for love or money! Ah, you have two to spare, I see! Here--here is actually one for _you_.” She called to her escort, who had stopped to speak to a passing friend. “Madeline,” she continued, “I think you know Mr. Wynne, who writes. Mr. Wynne, Miss West is one of your greatest admirers! She knows all your stories by heart.” This was a fiction, invented on the spur of the moment. Her ladyship coined many a little lie. Madeline looked up bewildered. The gentleman who was taking off his hat to her was--Laurence!--and yet not Laurence. What had he done to himself? He had discarded his beard, and was fashionably clean-shaven; moreover he was fashionably dressed in the orthodox long frock-coat, and wore a flower in his buttonhole, and the most absolutely correct gloves and tie. So much depends upon the style, shape, and colour of a man’s tie--and the very maker’s name! A rashly selected tie may stamp a man’s taste quite as fatally as the wrong number and pattern of buttons proclaim the date of his coat!