Charles I., which bore the name and arms of his ancestor, Diggory Warrender, armiger, of that epoch.

"Won't you try some, Lord Spunyarn?" old Warrender said; "It has made me the man I am," and certainly this statement was a flaming testimonial to the merits of the Warren ale; for old Warrender, who stood six feet in his socks, seemed to be all muscle, while his white and perfect teeth, he being a man of sixty-five, proved that, at all events as yet, physical decay had not set in, in the master of The Warren.

But Lord Spunyarn shook his head as he signed to the butler to give him what he termed a B. and S.

"Beer is too bulky for me, Warrender," said the spindle-shanked nobleman, as he stretched out his shapely but rather shaky hand for the panacea. "I object to bulk, Warrender, on principle; it is my terror of becoming a welterweight that made me go in for athletics. Why, look at my father, and they had to make a hole in the wall to get my grandfather's coffin out of the house. No, Warrender, mind and muscle are my strong points."

And so they were in Lord Spunyarn's own idea. Spunyarn was perpetually in training. He was ever matched against somebody, or against that very successful competitor, Father Time. But Spunyarn was never "fit," to use a sporting term. Naturally of a weakly constitution, his originally puny form had been carefully educated and developed at the great public school where athletics, "tone," and Latin verse, are the only subjects seriously taught. Spunyarn had failed to catch the "tone," Latin verse was a closed book to him, but he stuck to athletics. The name of Lord Spunyarn was constantly to be seen in the sporting prints, and though Spunyarn pluckily struggled along, coming in last in the foot races, being knocked about in the middle-weight boxing matches (knockings about which, to his credit it must be said, he bore with the patience of a martyr), yet, with all his sufferings, no single trophy as yet adorned Lord Spunyarn's rooms in Jermyn Street.

To-day Spunyarn had been beaten in the croquet tournament, and his partner had put down their united failure to the presence of Lord Spunyarn, while Spunyarn himself when they were beaten simply remarked, "Great mistake not taking the matutinal B. and S., you know." This hardly consoled the smart young lawyer, his lordship's partner, for his day's loss of time, his hotel bill, and his new and elaborate morning kit; still, he had had the honour of playing with a lord.

But metal more attractive soon compelled Spunyarn's attention, for his eyes fell upon the two pretty Warrender girls as they tripped towards the aged host, both hanging on the willing arms of the new Essex lion, Reggie Haggard.

Big Reginald Haggard was the ideal of the country maiden. He was not hideously beautiful, as it has become the fashion to depict the heroes of modern romance. It may at once be said that Haggard was undeniably good-looking. His long black moustache gave him, in the eyes of the ladies assembled at The Warren, the necessary romantic air. What is very much to the point in such matters was the fact that he was also extremely well dressed. He had the military neatness without the military swagger, and for the first time in his life Haggard's well-cut clothes were paid for, to the unspeakable pleasure and astonishment of his tailor. For Reginald Haggard, who eight years ago had left the paternal mansion an expatriated black sheep, had returned a man of comparative wealth. Turned loose a mere boy in London, his money had been spent, as young men about town usually spend their money. That young but very fashionable club, the Pandemonium, that club which has an oyster cellar in its basement, which keeps open all night, and at which shilling cigars are de rigueur, had been the cause of most of young Haggard's embarrassments. At the Pandemonium Haggard had made the acquaintance of Captains Spotstroke and Pool, half-pay; that acquaintance had naturally proved expensive. Bets were made and paid. Haggard was introduced to the bill-discounting fraternity, and had even lunched with the great Hyam Hyams; which fact shows how deep he was in the books of that great connoisseur and money-lender. As a rule Hyams's business lay only with members of the aristocracy, but Reginald Haggard was accepted as a client because he was distantly related to the Earl of Pit Town. Three lives, three good lives, stood between Haggard and the childless earl. There are such things as contingent post-obits. In these precarious commodities the fortune of Mr. Hyam Hyams had been made, under the astute advice of his solicitor, Mr. Morris Israels, of Bloomsbury Square, and it was to these precious securities that his dealings with young Haggard were confined. But at length Hyams would advance no more. Haggard, at an alarming sacrifice, parted with his jewellery, bid his family farewell, and quitted Essex for South America. At the expiration of eight years Haggard returned as a landed proprietor, the owner of numerous ranches, and of countless flocks and herds. His liabilities in England consisted solely of his debt to Hyam Hyams. This debt, however, was only payable in the rather unlikely contingency of his succeeding to the earldom of Pit Town. Also, much in opposition to the wishes of that respected solicitor, Mr. Morris Israels, a power had been reserved to Reginald Haggard to pay off both the principal and its interest at any time, in the extremely unlikely event of his ever having the money to do so. Such was Haggard's position when he became engaged, as has been narrated, to Georgina, Squire Warrender's handsome daughter, at the end of her first and triumphant London season. It has been noted that among Georgie's numerous and most assiduous admirers had been our friend Spunyarn. He had proposed to and been rejected by Georgie, but they still remained sworn friends.

The two girls, the elder of whom was but twenty, her cousin being two years younger, presented a striking contrast. Georgie was a remarkably fine girl of the true English type. Three centuries of Warrenders, a family which began as yeomen, but soon took its place in the squirearchy of its county, had transmitted to Georgie that healthy type, that sound physique and that clear complexion, which is seen only in England; and even in England, only among healthy rustics, or the women of those families of the upper class who habitually pass the greater portion of the year out of London. Not that Georgie Warrender was a mere rustic beauty, as her taper hands and tiny feet showed. It takes a good foot to look well in a walking shoe, and even in the trying walking shoe Georgie's foot was unmistakably a good one. Her clear blue eyes were honest and sympathetic; Georgie Warrender looked every one straight in the face, she had evidently nothing to conceal, nothing to be ashamed or afraid of. The two girls had been carefully educated, the "ologies" having been wisely omitted. Georgie's magnificent chestnut bronze hair was her great attraction. It is needless to say that a lock of it was in Haggard's pocket-book, and that one of Haggard's raven curls was worn in Georgie's locket. The engagement was an open one. There was no self-consciousness about either of the parties. They were both evidently proud of it.

Lucy was in many respects the exact opposite of her cousin. Lucy was a blonde; pretty, rather in the American style. But unlike most American beauties, far from being a mere skeleton in a skin, Lucy was a plump, well-developed specimen of the dreamy blonde. In type she much