or one of those vast concerns in which only Rothschilds and Barings can disport themselves.  Now and again you are informed that Sir Stephen Orme has been requested to stand for an important constituency, but that he was compelled to decline because of the pressure of his numerous affairs.  There may be a more famous and important individual in the world than your father, my dear Stafford, but I can’t call him to mind at this moment.”

“Chaff away,” said Stafford, good-humouredly.  “At any rate, he has been a jolly liberal father to me.  Did I tell you that just before he came home be placed a largish sum at his bank for me; I mean over and above my allowance?”

“You didn’t tell me, but I’m not at all surprised,” responded Howard.  “A truly wonderful father, and a model to all other parents.  Would that I possessed such a one.  You don’t remember your mother, Stafford?”

The young fellow’s handsome face softened for an instant; and his voice was low and grave as he replied: 

“No—­and yet sometimes I fancy that I do; though, seeing that she died when I was quite a kid, it must be only fancy.  I wish she’d lived,” his voice became still lower; “I wish I had a brother, or a sister, especially a sister—­By George! that’s a fine stream!  Did you see that fish jump, Howard?”

“No, I was too much occupied in jumping myself.  I thought by your exclamation that something had happened to the carriage or the horses, and that we were on the verge of a smash-up.  Let it jump if it amuses it.”

“So it may—­if I don’t catch it,” said Stafford, pulling up the horses near the bank of the stream.

“Do you mean to tell me that you are going to fish?” demanded Howard, with a groan.  “My dear Stafford, I know that being that abominable thing—­a sportsman—­you are consequently mad; but you might have the decency to curb your insanity out of consideration for the wretched man who has the misfortune to be your companion, and who plainly sees that this period of sunshine is a gilded fraud, and that presently it will rain again like cats and dogs.”

Stafford laughed.  He had got down and dragged out a rod and a fishing-basket.

“Sorry, old chap,” he said, “but no fisherman could lose such a chance as this, even to save his best friend from rheumatic fever.  I thought we should come across a stream or two, and I put on these togs accordingly.”  He wore a Norfolk suit of that wonderful Harris tweed which, strange to say, keeps out the rain, the heat, and the cold; and flies were stuck in his cap of the same material.  “But, look here, there’s no need for me to keep you; Pottinger will drive you to this place, Carysford, where we stay the night—­I’ve engaged rooms—­and you can have a warm bath and get into the dress-clothes after which you are hankering.  When I’ve caught a fish or two I’ll come on after you.  Don’t argue, now!”

“My dear Stafford, I haven’t the least intention of doing so; I’m simply dying for a bath, a change, and a huge fire; and when you arrive you’ll find me sitting over the latter humbly thanking God that I’m not a sportsman.”