“Good heavens, how wet you look, and, needless to add, how happy.  If there is anything in the doctrine of the transmigration of souls, my dear Stafford, your future embodiment will be that of a Newfoundland dog.  Such an extremely strong passion for cold water is almost—­er—­indecent.  I’ve had a lovely morning in the library; and your father is still at work with his correspondence.  I asked him what he thought of Lord Palmerston’s aphorism:  that if you left your letters unanswered long enough they answered themselves; and he admitted it was true, and that he had sometimes adopted the plan successfully.  There is a secretary with him—­a dark and silent man named Murray, who appears to have an automatic, double-action brain; anyway he can write a letter and answer questions at the same time.  And he watches your father’s lips as if he—­the secretary, not Sir Stephen—­were a dog waiting for a stone to be thrown.  It is interesting to watch—­for a time; then it gets on one’s nerves.  May I ask where you have been?”

“Oh, just for a ride; been trying the new horse:  he’s a clinker!  The governor couldn’t have got hold of a better if he’d searched all Arabia, and Hungary to boot.  I’ll just change and get some lunch.  I hope you haven’t waited?”

“Your hope is not in vain, young man,” replied Howard, suavely; “but I will come and sit beside you while you stoke.”

With Measom’s aid Stafford was soon into dry clothes and seated at lunch, and, as he had promised, Howard drew a chair to the table, and contemplated him with vicarious enjoyment.

“What an appetite you have!” he drawled, admiringly.  “I imagine it would stand by you, even if you were in love.  As a specimen of the perfectly healthy animal you stand preeminent, my dear Stafford.  By the way, shall I spoil your lunch if I read you out a list of the guests whom we are expecting this afternoon?  Sir Stephen was good enough to furnish me with it, with the amiable wish that I might find some friend on it.  What do you say to Lord and Lady Fitzharford; the Countess of Clansford; the Baron Wirsch; the Right Honourable Henry Efford; Sir William and Lady Plaistow—­”

Stafford looked up and smiled.

“Any more?”

“Oh, yes.  There are the two Beltons and George Levinson, to say nothing of Mr. Griffinberg, the railroad king.”

Stafford stared at his claret glass.

“I wonder why the governor has asked such a crowd?” he said, musingly.

“A perfectly arranged symphony in colours, I call it,” said Howard.  “Fashion is represented by the Fitzharfords and old Lady Clansford; politics by Efford and the Beltons, and finance by Plaistow and Wirsch.  That Griffinberg is coming is a proof that Sir Stephen has got ’a little railway’ in his mind; there are several others who seem to have been thrown in, not to increase weight, but to lighten it.  It will be rather amusing—­a kind of menagerie which, under less skilful guidance than Sir Stephen’s, might be sure to disagree and fight.”