“My Dear Girl,--Put on your calling-frock, and come up to tea at once. The Romneys and a few other people are coming over, and Fred brought a most interesting man down from town this morning. I want you to know him. He is quite delightful to talk to, and is a millionaire! Come and help me entertain him. “Yours ever, “Amy Naselton.” I laughed as I went upstairs to change my things. Lady Naselton was famed throughout the county as an inveterate matchmaker. Without a doubt the millionaire who was delightful to talk to was already in her mind as the most suitable match for a poor country clergyman’s daughter who had the misfortune to possess ambitions. I could tell by the fussy manner in which she greeted me that she considered the matter already almost settled. The room was full of people, but my particular victim was sitting alone in a recess. Evidently he had been kept back for my behoof. Lady Naselton, as though suddenly remembering his presence, brought him over and introduced him at once. “Mr. Berdenstein,” she said--”Miss Ffolliot. Will you see that Miss Ffolliot has some tea?” she added, smiling upon him blandly. “My servants all seem so stupid to-day.” I sat down and looked at him while he attended to my wants. At the first glance I disliked him. He was tall and dark, with sallow face and regular features of somewhat Jewish type. There was too much unction about his manner. He smiled continually, and showed his teeth too often. I found myself wondering whether he had made his million in a shop. I was forced to talk to him, however, and I settled myself down to be bored. “You have not been in England long?” I asked. “About three days,” he answered. His voice was not so bad. I looked at him again. His face was not a pleasant one, and he seemed to be scarcely at his ease, added to which something in his bearing indistinctly suggested a limited acquaintance with drawing rooms such as Lady Naselton’s. Yet it was possible that he was clever. His forehead was well shaped, and his mouth determined. “Mr. Fred Naselton was the first man I saw in London,” he went on. “It was a very odd thing to run against him before I was well off the ship.” “He was an old friend of yours?” I continued, purely for the sake of keeping up the conversation. “Not very. Oh, no! Scarcely friend at all,” he disclaimed. “I did him a turn in Rio last month. Nothing to speak of, but he was grateful.” “Where?” I asked, abruptly. “Rio,” he repeated. “Rio Janeiro--you know, capital of South America.” I turned and faced him suddenly. His eyes had been fixed on my face. He had been watching me furtively. My heart beat suddenly faster. I drew a little breath, I could not trust myself to speak for a moment. After a brief pause he continued-- “I’ve been out there a good many years. Long enough to get jolly well sick of the place and people and everything connected with it. I’m thankful to say that I’ve finished with it.”