for a detailed description of young Mr. Wingfield, but they made the most of it in conversation with their less fortunate associates the next day. “Have you called on the Manor people yet? What, not yet? We were there yesterday. My husband knew old Mr. Wingfield very well, you know. Mrs. Wingfield is a charming person--quite handsome still. She had been looking forward to seeing us. She feared that there were no families with whom she could make real friends in this neighbourhood.” “Was the son there? Did you see the son?” “Ah, yes, we saw him--only for a short time, however; he had to hurry off to keep an appointment. What is he like? Oh, quite nice--rather retiring, I should say.” “We heard some rather dreadful stories about him. Did he seem wild?” “Oh, nothing to speak of. It doesn’t do to believe all that one hears about young men like that. I hear that the property, even allowing for the unlet farms, amounts to something close upon twenty thousand a year.” And then the audience raised interested eyebrows and smiled complete acquiescence in the obvious truth that one should be slow to believe anything to the discredit of an eligible bachelor with an income approaching twenty thousand pounds a year. It so happened, however, that Jack Wingfield was something of a lawn tennis player, and he had already entered for an open tournament to be held on the Framsby ground the first week in June; and he was glad when his mother told him that she had accepted the offer of Mrs. Bowlby-Sutherst to put up his name and her own for the club. Jack Wingfield belonged to Ranelagh and Hurlingham and a couple of lawn tennis clubs, and he had snatched a second-class prize now and again at Cannes and Mentone. He had been told encouragingly by the men who had beaten him that he had in him the making of a first-class player; and perhaps he had, but he had also in him an inherited trait of self-depreciation which prevented him from working hard to attain anything. He thought very poorly of himself all round; and when urged by competent advisers to give himself a chance, he had invariably given his shrug, saying, “What’s the good? I’ll never be anything but a plater or an ‘also ran.’ I get some fun out of it as it is, but I’ll never do more than I have done.” So it was with cricket and polo. He never took every ounce out of himself in fighting for anything. Framsby’s lawn tennis week begins on the first Monday in June, and the tournament being an open one, and several champions and ex-champions coming to take part in it, some good play was certain to be seen when the Framsby folk were got rid of, which was usually during the first day’s play. Moreover, there was a “gate” during this week, so that the ground, sacred for the rest of the year to the members, was invaded by outsiders with shillings in their hands--five shillings for the week.