Young Golderly has been stopped a dozen times; he has seen sweet smiles, caught flashing glances. Evie has called attention to her lovely feet by knocking one against a chair. Audrey has whispered to him that she _adores_ polo; will be at Hurlingham to-day. "To see you hit a goal," she coos; "oh! how I shall clap!" "She may be a little wild--my new pony," he says, his mind still full of that piece of bay symmetry, a race-horse in miniature, and slips away. Golderly had come to meet a friend who would have talked of nothing but polo ponies; he has missed him, and the pretty runners of the race strive and jostle until they bore him sadly. He turns to slip away, to get back to his club by a round across the Park, and then gasps, smitten roughly, his hat bumping on to the path. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Blow these hobble skirts. Blow the things!" says a girl's voice. Kitty Harrington, a big, clumsy maiden, freckles powdering her clear skin. "A badly-dressed touzled young woman," is the verdict passed on her. Kitty is having her season without any clever, youthful mother; she is under the charge of her aunt, Lady Harrington, who does not take much notice of her, and thinks the girl a foolish tomboy. "Snap was running out to where the motors are," says Kitty, guilelessly, "and he might get hurt. We were doing a scamper on the grass." Snap is a rough terrier of uncertain pedigree, unwillingly confined in London. "He ties his lead round people's legs if I drag him through the crowd," Kitty goes on. "So we keep away and make believe it's country. Oh! if it was! And then this skirt tripped me." Young Golderly looks at her. A big, rather clumsy girl, but open-eyed, fresh from eighteen years of country life; a girl who has learnt to swim in the open sea; whose gymnastics have been practised up trees. "They are rotten things to try to run in," he says, smiling boyishly, "those skirts. Haven't I met you somewhere? I'm Lord Golderly." Here he pursues his hat, which Snap is treating as if it were a rat. "Oh! goodness! Oh! I have been clumsy." Kitty is all pink cheeks and tearful eyes; she dabs them surreptitiously. "Oh! your poor best hat--all torn! Oh! I am a clumsy girl--never meant for London. No, I haven't met you. I'm Miss Harrington--Lady Harrington's niece." "I know her!" Jossy, master of eighty thousand a year, grins as he examines his hat brim. "Are you going to the match to-day--to Hurlingham?" "N--no," Kitty's lips droop. "Auntie's made up her party! And oh! I do love polo. We play at home, the boys and I. I've such a pony! Have you got a nice one?" "A nice one!" Young Golderly grins again; this girl is like a breath of fresh country air blowing across the moorlands. Evidently his name conveys nothing to her. "I've twenty," he says, laughing. "Oh, then you're rich! How jolly! If I were rich--" "Well?" he asks. Kitty puts her head on one side.