"Poor Connie Sleek, if she could only hear you. Depend upon it the dreams of both sisters last night were disturbed by visions of possible promotion. They couldn't restrain their raptures when they learnt that they were to entertain a lord, a real live lord, you know. But you are not to turn their heads, Lord Spunyarn; respect the innocence of our simple village maidens." "It is that simple village innocence, Miss Warrender, which in your case has caused me to sigh so long in vain." "Thanks," she said with a low courtesy, "the most sincere compliments are always the most grateful. _À propos de rien_, how did you leave Mrs. Charmington, Lord Spunyarn?" "On the wane, decidedly on the wane. I think she will soon be a monarch retiring from business. Your cousin and you extinguished her effectually. There's a little Portuguese Jew, a financial light; he has ducats and a daughter: the ducats are undeniable; the daughter is all eyes, hair and diamonds; she is the last startling novelty of the season, and under royal patronage. There's only one chance for the Charmington to keep herself before the public: she should try the stage. God knows she has brass enough." "You are all the same, Lord Spunyarn; when we cease to please you laugh at us. I suppose you'll be soon recommending me to try the stage." "Oh, no, Miss Warrender. _You_ are far too genuine, far too sincere." Here the conversation was broken off by the exigencies of the game. The two young men sat smoking late into the night. Haggard narrated his American experience, cursed the dilatoriness of lawyers and land agents; told of his feats by flood and field; praised the hospitality of the natives, the horses and the half-castes; but he didn't say much of Mademoiselle de Bondi, of the Mexico Opera House. And then they talked about the Pandemonium, and Haggard heard with pleasure that his numerous club acquaintances would be delighted to see him. "Not quite so pleased, I fancy, when they know I have forsworn the pasteboards. That Lamb affair was a scorcher. Besides, Shirtings, you know--I may say it to you without swagger--I find now I've made my pile that it's too big to risk, so I mean to set up as a fogey, and to confine myself to whist at pound points." "Poor old paterfamilias," exclaimed the sympathizing friend with genuine feeling. "I know, port wine, a J.P.-ship, with a lord-lieutenancy and the gout looming in the distant future." Haggard gave a groan. "I suppose it'll come to that," said he. "How are the old man and the pigs? Jolly as usual, eh?" "Well, the pigs are flourishing, but the governor's out of sorts; he speaks thick, and his handwriting's getting rather groggy; the poor old chap may go off at any moment." There was a short silence.