After the match was over the two ladies and their attendant strolled about the gardens.  Other men came and fluttered round Lesbia, and women and girls exchanged endearing smiles and pretty little words of greeting with her, and envied her the brown frock and buttercups and Mr. Smithson at her chariot wheel.  And then they went to the lawn in front of the club-house, which was so crowded that even Mr. Smithson found it difficult to get a tea-table, and would hardly have succeeded so soon as he did if it had not been for the assistance of a couple of Lesbia’s devoted Guardsmen, who ran to and fro and badgered the waiters.

After much skirmishing they were seated at a rustic table, the blue river gleaming and glancing in the distance, the good old trees spreading their broad shadows over the grass, the company crowding and chattering and laughing—­an animated picture of pretty faces, smart gowns, big parasols, Japanese fans.

Lesbia poured out the tea with the prettiest air of domesticity.

‘Can you really pour out tea?’ gasped a callow lieutenant, gazing upon her with goggling, enraptured eyes.  ’I did not think you could do anything so earthly.’

‘I can, and drink it too,’ answered Lesbia, laughing.  ’I adore tea.  Cream and sugar?’

‘I—­I beg your pardon—­how many?’ murmured the youth, who had lost himself in gazing, and no longer understood plain English.

Mr. Smithson frowned at the intruder, and contrived to absorb Lesbia’s attention for the rest of the afternoon.  He had a good deal more to say for himself than her military admirers, and was altogether more amusing.  He had a little cynical air which Lesbia’s recent education had taught her to enjoy.  He depreciated all her female friends—­abused their gowns and bonnets, and gave her to understand, between the lines, as it were, that she was the only woman in London worth thinking about.

She looked at him curiously, wondering how Belle Trinder had been able to resign herself to the idea of marrying him.

He was not absolutely bad looking—­but he was in all things unlike a girl’s ideal lover.  He was short and stout, with a pale complexion, and sunken faded eyes, as of a man who had spent the greater part of his life by candle light, and had pored much over ledgers and bank books, share lists and prospectuses.  He dressed well, or allowed himself to be dressed by the most correct of tailors—­the Prince’s tailor—­but he never attempted to lead the fashion in his garments.  He had no originality.  Such sublime flights as that of the man who revived corduroy, or of that daring genius who resuscitated the half-forgotten Inverness coat, were unknown to him.  He could only follow the lead of the highest.  He had small feet, of which he was intensely proud, podgy white hands on which he wore the most exquisite rings.  He changed his rings every day, like a Roman Emperor; was reported to have summer and winter