covets a picture; that it may belong to him, and that others may fruitlessly desire his pearl of great price. True, no sordid consideration influenced Haggard. Can we call this love? Let us be charitable and do so. But we will also be just and qualify. It was love of the nineteenth century, of the society type.

"You pay me a great compliment, Mr. Haggard, a very undeserved compliment. I cannot pretend to be taken by surprise, for, as you say, your attentions have been very marked. What am I to say to you? With a girl it is a very serious matter; for once we give our hearts, at least some of us, Mr. Haggard, we give them for good and all. A mistake once made, in our case, cannot be set right. Our affections once given away to a man, and perhaps afterwards flung aside, then leave us with nothing to bestow but our miserable selves. Are you quite sure you have made up your mind, and that you won't want to change it?" she said, looking up archly in his face.

But his teeth were set, and the muscles of his massive jaw were working hard, as he gazed intently on the gravel at his feet. It was evidently no laughing matter with Haggard. The muscles of his jaw had worked in a similar way only a week ago, when he stood on the grand stand at Epsom, and saw the favourite, whom he had backed heavily, almost "collared" on the post; but the favourite had won, and Dark Despair had failed to land the odds of sixty to one laid against him. So had the muscles of Reginald Haggard's jaw worked when he had "bluffed" Don Emmanuel Garcia at the almost historical game of poker, which they had played at Chihuahua. Haggard had only held knave high, about as small a hand as a poker player can hold; he had successfully "bluffed" the Mexican, and won. He is bluffing now, for hearts are trumps at the game that is being played; and we, who look over the cards of both hands, can see that big Reginald's at least is a poor one. Will he win? Of course he will. What chance has Georgie Warrender against so experienced a player? The stakes were Haggard's before he had cut or shuffled the cards.

"Sure, Georgie? of course I'm sure. I may hope, then? I may dare to hope?"

Wise man as he was, he carried the place by a determined rush. He took her hand in his, the taper little fingers were not withdrawn.

"Georgie, darling, how can I thank you? I am not good at this sort of thing."

If he had not attained perfection in the art of love, it was certainly not for want of practice; for if the truth be told, the big Lothario habitually made love to every pretty woman he met; and if there was no pretty woman, then to the least unprepossessing one of those present. The rest of the conversation went on much as such conversations usually do. Haggard swore eternal constancy. Georgie confessed that she "supposed she did care for him." But this modified sympathy did not satisfy Haggard; he pleaded for something more explicit.

"I have always liked you, Mr. Haggard," she said, for Georgie could not yet bring her self to address her lover by his Christian name; "but I fear I must seem a very poor creature after all the dashing South-American beauties, to say nothing of the many recognized successes of the past season."

"But you were the success of the past season, Georgie. Everybody knows it. Why, they raved about you. You must know very well that Madame Hortense made a little fortune with the 'Warrender' hat."

"Ah, that was Lucy's idea, not mine, Mr. Haggard."

"A very charming idea, Georgie, but never so charming as when you wore it."

Georgie Warrender rose and made him a low courtesy. "I see you deal in sugared compliments," she said.

He got up and offered his arm.

The hideous and snobbish custom of taking a lady's arm had not then been invented. And to do him justice, even if it had, Haggard was too much of a gentleman to have attempted it. For customs borrowed from the habits of the demi monde would have been sadly out of place with a girl like Georgie Warrender. With her cousin it might have been different; but with Georgie the thing would have been impossible.

As the extent of his own good luck began to dawn upon Haggard, he felt that the world had indeed gone very well with him; for as he had marched down the walk of the old-fashioned rose garden that morning, for the first time in his life he had felt diffident of success; for the first time in his life he now vowed in his fickle mind to be true to the smiling girl who, in the bright glamour of a first love, hung so confidingly on his arm. Of course he vowed eternal constancy. At lovers' perjuries they say Jove laughs, and well might the whole Olympian chorus have joined in the loud guffaw with which the king of all the gods doubtlessly greeted the protestations of Fortune's favourite. As each drank deep draughts of the subtle poison from the other's eyes, their glances grew brighter, and they were only awakened from the dream that comes to us all, at least once in our lifetimes, by the imperious clash of the luncheon-bell. Old Mr. Warrender and Lucy appeared upon the lawn, and the broad smile on her father's face and Lucy's merry laugh told the happy pair that they might spare any explanation. Georgie, in the pride of her honest love, disdained to take her hand from the young man's arm. With womanly dignity she advanced to meet her delighted father. He kissed her on the forehead, and then the blushing girl took refuge in her cousin's affectionate embrace.

"Be good to her, my boy," said Squire Warrender, his honest voice a little broken as he thought of the old days of his own too short-lived happiness, and of the proud dead beauty, Georgie's mother. It was a short speech, but it rang in Reginald Haggard's ears for many a year.

Will he be good to her? He should be. If not good to her, surely Reginald Haggard will be less than a dog.

CHAPTER II.

THE CROQUET PARTY.

Everybody agreed that the day had been a success. The lawn at The Warren was an ideal croquet-lawn, large, level, and daisyless. It was an old lawn, and was carefully watered. What better place, then, for the local tournament to be fought out upon, than the old lawn at The Warren.

At last the final game has been played. The day had been excessively warm. Everybody was sitting in the shade discussing the claret-cup, the syllabubs, the strawberries and cream, and the home-made confectionery, that were so freely pressed upon the large and rather miscellaneous assemblage which filled the old-fashioned grounds of Diggory Warrender. The owner of this archaic name we have met for an instant in the preceding chapter. He was a hale old country gentleman, a J.P. for his county, and universally liked. Perhaps there was more of the yeoman than the squire about old Mr. Warrender. Though he farmed many acres, yet he did so at a profit, strange to say. But perhaps this is hardly to be wondered at when it is remembered that the acres were his own, and that consequently there was no rent to pay.

Mr. Warrender, who rather scorned claret-cup, was about to discuss the merits of a foaming tankard of home-brewed ale. The ale was good; perhaps it tasted the better to old Warrender as he drank it from the silver tankard of the time of