"I'd have hunters; three of them, all my own. Not the boys', which I borrow. And I'd have a motor and drive it; and give Mumsie a new fur coat--hers is old. And I'd have otter hounds." "Oh, you like that too? Otter hunting," he says eagerly. "Oh, yes!" Kitty shows a set of strong even teeth. "It's so jolly up in the early mornings when all the grass is washing in dew; and hunting up the rivers; and the dogs working. And then isn't breakfast good?" says Kitty, prosaically. "I'd cook mine on the river bank. I make fine scrambled eggs, and I can toast bacon till it's just sumptuous." Of course Kitty can have no idea that Golderly has hunted a pack of otter hounds for some years. The boy looks at her again. She is so fresh and natural and friendly. The skin under her freckles is singularly fine; her eyes are bright, her active figure at its worst in a ridiculous hobble skirt. "Say! I can't go back there," he nods towards the strolling crowd, "in Snap's handiwork. Let's walk across the grass." "I want to get to Lancaster Gate. Right!" says Kitty, "we live there, you know." As they go they talk of ponies and horses and terriers and otters and tennis, and when they part young Golderly takes a brown, shapely, gloveless hand in his and shakes it warmly. "Come to the match; come to see me play," he says. "I'll take you over to the ponies and show you my beauties. You ought to come." Kitty rushes in to her aunt. "Auntie! get Hurlingham tickets somewhere. You must!" And Kitty tells of her adventure. When a year later big Kitty marches sedately down the aisle of a country church on the arm of her husband, a Marquis, she manages her trailing skirts cleverly enough. A rank outsider, a creature not even mentioned in the betting; but a letter from Kitty's dearest friend might prove that she need not have tripped so grievously over her hobble skirt; while further experience proved that she was lazy about otter hunting, and that behind the ingenuous face lay a shrewd and far-seeing brain. The letter was to "Dearest Kit." "Shame of Auntie May not to bother about you," it ran. "I met young Lord Golderly at Marches Hall last week-end. He's just your sort--all sport. Get to meet him somehow and talk horses--_polo ponies_ and _otter hunting_; he's sick of Society." The future Lady Golderly carefully tore up that letter. Estelle Reynolds turned from watching the flow of life stream past her to speak to Bertie Carteret. Estelle was a mere outsider there, knowing very few people--just a few of Esmé's friends. She liked to see them flutter up and down, meeting, parting, always going on somewhere, always chattering of the hundred things which they had got to do. "I should like to go to Cliff End," repeated Estelle. "The love of London is not with me, though for two years, perhaps three, I must stay here, until my mother comes from her travels, in fact." "Unless--you marry," Bertie said slowly. In some vague way the thought vexed him.