He began to laugh again suddenly and cynically—­the bitter laugh of a man who hides his soul; and Larpent leaned back in his chair again, as if he recognized that the discussion was over.

“I don’t suppose anyone will blame you for it,” he said.

“No one will have the chance,” said Saltash.

CHAPTER II

THE COMPACT

The polo-ground at Fairharbour was reckoned as one of the greatest attractions the town possessed.  Because of it, and the Graydown race-course an ever-increasing stream of visitors poured yearly into the town and its neighbourhood, and very fashionable crowds were wont to gather during the summer season at the various hotels which had sprung up during recent years for their accommodation.

The old Anchor Hotel facing the shore had been bought by a syndicate and rebuilt and was now a very modern erection indeed.  It boasted a large lounge, palm-decked and glass-covered, in which a string band played for several hours of the day, and the constant swing of its doors testified to the great popularity to which it had attained since its renovation.

To Bunny, who had known the place under very different circumstances in his boyhood, it was always a source of amusement to drop in and mark progress.  The polo-ground was only a few yards away, and he had become an ardent member of the Club to which he almost invariably devoted two afternoons of the week.

He was a promising player, and his keenness made him a favourite.  He rode Lord Saltash’s ponies, Saltash himself very seldom putting in an appearance.  He was wont to declare that he had no time for games, and his frequent absences made it impossible for him to take a very active part in the proceedings of the Club which he had himself inaugurated in an idle hour.  He dropped in occasionally to watch a game, and he took interest in Bunny’s progress; but he was very rarely moved to play himself.  He was too restless, too volatile, to maintain any lasting enthusiasm for any pastime.  All that was generally seen of him when staying at Burchester was a lightning glimpse as he tore by in his car, or else galloped furiously over the downs and along the hard sands in the early morning.

He was a good deal in town as a rule during the season, but with the general exodus in July he was invariably the first to go, driven by a fever that gave him no rest.  Even his most intimate friends seldom knew where he was to be found or whither his wild fancy would take him next.  No one was sure of him at any time.  He would accept an engagement and throw it up again without scruple if it did not accord with his mood.  Yet wherever he went he could always command a welcome—­at least from the feminine portion of the community who declared that Charles Rex could not be judged by ordinary standards; he was a law unto himself.