There Mr. Brumley’s mind desisted for sheer lack of material. Given this lady and that board and his general impression of Harman’s refreshment and confectionery activity—the data were insufficient. A commonplace man no doubt, a tradesman, energetic perhaps and certainly a little brassy, successful by the chances of that economic revolution which everywhere replaces the isolated shop by the syndicated enterprise, irrationally conceited about it; a man perhaps ultimately to be pitied—with this young goddess finding herself.... Mr. Brumley’s mind sat down comfortably to the more congenial theme of a young goddess finding herself, and it was only very gradually in the course of several days that the personality of Sir Isaac began to assume its proper importance in the scheme of his imaginings. §2 In the afternoon as he went round the links with Horace Toomer he got some definite lights upon Sir Isaac. His mind was so full of Lady Harman that he couldn’t but talk of her visit. “I’ve a possible tenant for my cottage,” he said as he and Toomer, full of the sunny contentment of English gentlemen who had played a proper game in a proper manner, strolled back towards the clubhouse. “That man Harman.” “Not the International Stores and Staminal Bread man.” “Yes. Odd. Considering my hatred of his board.” “He ought to pay—anyhow,” said Toomer. “They say he has a pretty wife and keeps her shut up.” “She came,” said Brumley, neglecting to add the trifling fact that she had come alone. “Pretty?” “Charming, I thought.” “He’s jealous of her. Someone was saying that the chauffeur has orders not to take her into London—only for trips in the country. They live in a big ugly house I’m told on Putney Hill. Did she in any way _look_—as though——?” “Not in the least. If she isn’t an absolutely straight young woman I’ve never set eyes on one.” “_He_,” said Toomer, “is a disgusting creature.” “Morally?” “No, but—generally. Spends his life ruining little tradesmen, for the fun of the thing. He’s three parts an invalid with some obscure kidney disease. Sometimes he spends whole days in bed, drinking Contrexéville Water and planning the bankruptcy of decent men.... So the party made a knight of him.” “A party must have funds, Toomer.” “He didn’t pay nearly enough. Blapton is an idiot with the honours. When it isn’t Mrs. Blapton. What can you expect when —— ——” (But here Toomer became libellous.)