They lived in one of those box-like mansions, so many of which were built in Ireland under the Georges.  On either side trees had been planted, and they stretched to the right and left like the wings of a theatre.  In front there was a green lawn; at the back a sloppy stableyard.  The latter was May’s especial delight, and when Mr. Scully was with them, it seemed impossible to induce her to leave it.  He frequently rode over to Beechgrove, and towards the end of the afternoon it became easy to persuade him to stay to dinner.  And, as the night darkened and the rain began to fall, the inhospitality of turning him out was insisted on by May, and Mrs. Gould sent up word that a room was to be prepared for him.  Next morning he sent home for a change of things, and thus it was not infrequent for him to protract his visit to the extent of three or four days.

His great friend, Mrs. Manly—­a lady who had jumped five feet, four months before the birth of her sixth child—­had said that his was a ‘wasted life,’ and the phrase, summing up what most people thought of him, gained currency, and was now generally used whenever his conduct was criticized or impeached.  After having been in London, where he spent some years in certain vague employments, and having contracted as much debt as his creditors would permit, and more than his father would pay, he had gone through the Bankruptcy Court, and returned home to drag through life wearily, through days and weeks so appallingly idle, that he often feared to get out of bed in the morning.  At first his father had tried to make use of him in his agency business, and it was principally owing to Mr. Fred’s bullying and insolent manners that Mr. Scully was now unable to leave his house unless accompanied by police.

Fred was about thirty years of age.  His legs were long, his hands were bony, and ‘stableyard’ was written in capital letters on his face.  He carried a Sportsman under his arm, a penny and a half-crown jingled in his pocket; and as he walked he lashed the trousers and boot, whose elegance was an echo of the old Regent Street days, with an ash-plant.

Such was the physiology of this being, and from it the psychology is easy to surmise:  a complete powerlessness to understand that there was anything in life worth seeking except pleasure—­and pleasure to Fred meant horses and women.  Of earthly honour the greatest was to be well known in an English hunting country; and he was not averse to speaking of certain ladies of title, with whom he had been on intimate terms, and with whom, it was said, he corresponded.  On occasions he would read or recite poems, cut from the pages of the Society Journals, to his lady friends.

May, however, saw nothing but the outside.  The already peeling-off varnish of a few years of London life satisfied her.  Given a certain versatility in turning a complimentary phrase, the abundant ease with which he explained his tastes, which, although few, were pronounced, add to these the remnant of fashion that still lingered in his wardrobe—­scarfs from the Burlington Arcade, scent from Bond Street, cracked patent-leather shoes and mended silk stockings—­and it will be understood how May built something that did duty for an ideal out of this broken-down swell.