Within a very few days of their “settling down” at Rose Lea, everybody in the neighbourhood,--that is to say, everybody of “county” standing--that height of social magnificence--had left their cards on Mr. and Mrs. Polydore May. They had, of course, previously made the usual private “kind inquiries,”--first as to the newcomers’ financial position, and next as to their respectability, and both were found to be unimpeachable. One of the most curious circumstances in this curious world is the strictness with which certain little bipeds inquire into the reported life and conduct of other little bipeds, the inquisitors themselves being generally the most doubtful characters. “Funny little man, that Mr. May!” said the woman leader of the “hunting set,” who played bridge all day and as far into the night as she could. “Like a retired tradesman! Must have sold cheese and butter at some time of his life!” “Oh, no!” explained a male intimate, whose physiognomy strangely resembled that of the fox he chased all the winter. “He made his pile in copper.” “Oh, did he? Then he’s quite decent?” “Quite!” “That daughter of his----” Here a snigger went round the “county” company. They were discussing the new arrivals at their afternoon tea. “Poor old thing!” “Must be forty if she’s a day!” “Oh, give the dear ‘girl’ forty-five at least!” said a Chivalrous Youth, declining tea, and helping himself to a whisky-soda at the side-board. “They say she was jilted.” “No wonder!” And a bleating laugh followed this suggestion. “I suppose,” remarked one man of gloomy countenance and dyspeptic eye, “I suppose it’s really unpardonable for a woman to get out of her twenties and remain unmarried, but if it happens so I don’t see what’s to be done with her.” “Smother her!” said the Chivalrous Youth, drinking his whisky. Everybody laughed. What a witty boy he was!--no wonder his mother was proud of him! “We shall have to ask her to one or two tennis parties,” said the woman who had first spoken. “We can’t leave her out altogether.” “She doesn’t play,” said the gloomy man. “She told me so. She reads Greek.” A shrill chorus of giggles in falsetto greeted this announcement. “Reads Greek! How perfectly dreadful! A blue-stocking!” “No! Really! It’s _too_ weird!” exclaimed the bridge-and-hunting lady. “I hope she’s not an ‘art’ person?” “No.” And the gloomy man began to be cheerful, seeing that his talk had awakened a little interest. “No, not at all. She told me she liked pictures, but hated artists. I said she couldn’t have pictures without artists, and she agreed, but observed that fortunately all the finest pictures of the world were painted by artists who were dead. Curious way of putting it!” “Going off it?” queried the Chivalrous Youth, having now drained his tumbler of drink. “No, I don’t think so. The fact is--er--she--well, she appeared to me to be rather--er--clever!”