’Lady Lesbia Haselden is a very different person from a country parson’s daughter,’ answered her chaperon; ’Smithson told me all about it afterwards.  He was really taken with Belle’s fine figure and good complexion; but one of her particular friends told him of her foolish talk about her sisters, and how well she meant to get them married when she was Mrs. Smithson.  This disgusted him.  He went down to Essex, reconnoitered the parsonage, saw one of the sisters hanging out cuffs and collars in the orchard—­another feeding the fowls—­both in shabby gowns and country-made boots; one of them with red hair and freckles.  The mother was bargaining for fish with a hawker at the kitchen door.  And these were the people he was expected to import into Park Lane, under ceilings painted by Leighton.  These were the people he was to exhibit on board his yacht, to cart about on his drag.  “I had half made up my mind to marry the girl, but I would sooner have hung myself than marry her mother and sisters so I took the first train for Dover, en route for Algiers,” said Smithson, and upon my word I could hardly blame the man,’ concluded Lady Kirkbank.

They were driving up the narrow avenue to the gates of Hurlingham by this time.  Lesbia shock out her frock and looked at her gloves, tan-coloured mousquetaires, reaching up to the elbow, and embroidered to match her frock.

To-day she was a study in brown and gold.  Brown satin petticoat embroidered with marsh marigolds; little bronze shoes, with marsh marigolds tied on the lachets; brown stockings with marsh marigold clocks; tunic brown foulard smothered with quillings of soft brown lace; Princess bonnet of brown straw, with a wreath of marsh marigold and a neat little buckle of brown diamonds; parasol brown satin, with an immense bunch of marsh marigolds on the top; fan to match parasol.

The seats in front of the field were nearly all full when Lady Kirkbank and Lesbia left their carriage; but their interests had been protected by a gentleman who had turned down two chairs and sat between them on guard.  This was Mr. Smithson.

‘I have been sitting here for an hour keeping your chairs,’ he said, as he rose to greet them.  ’You have no idea what work I have had, and how ferociously all the women have looked at me.’

The match was going on.  The Lancers were scuffling for the ball, and affording a fine display of hog-maned ponies and close-cropped young men in ideal boots.  But Lesbia cared very little about the match.  She was looking along the serried ranks of youth and beauty to see if anybody’s frock was smarter than her own.

No.  She could see nothing she liked so well as her brown satin and buttercups.  She sat down in a perfectly contented frame of mind, pleased with herself and with Seraphine—­pleased even with Mr. Smithson, who had shown himself devoted by his patient attendance upon the empty chairs.