And so they were in Lord Spunyarn's own idea. Spunyarn was perpetually in training. He was ever matched against somebody, or against that very successful competitor, Father Time. But Spunyarn was never "fit," to use a sporting term. Naturally of a weakly constitution, his originally puny form had been carefully educated and developed at the great public school where athletics, "tone," and Latin verse, are the only subjects seriously taught. Spunyarn had failed to catch the "tone," Latin verse was a closed book to him, but he stuck to athletics. The name of Lord Spunyarn was constantly to be seen in the sporting prints, and though Spunyarn pluckily struggled along, coming in last in the foot races, being knocked about in the middle-weight boxing matches (knockings about which, to his credit it must be said, he bore with the patience of a martyr), yet, with all his sufferings, no single trophy as yet adorned Lord Spunyarn's rooms in Jermyn Street. To-day Spunyarn had been beaten in the croquet tournament, and his partner had put down their united failure to the presence of Lord Spunyarn, while Spunyarn himself when they were beaten simply remarked, "Great mistake not taking the matutinal B. and S., you know." This hardly consoled the smart young lawyer, his lordship's partner, for his day's loss of time, his hotel bill, and his new and elaborate morning kit; still, he had had the honour of playing with a lord. But metal more attractive soon compelled Spunyarn's attention, for his eyes fell upon the two pretty Warrender girls as they tripped towards the aged host, both hanging on the willing arms of the new Essex lion, Reggie Haggard.