Miss Gwynne patronisingly singles out Rowland Prothero, who, reserved by nature, feels doubly so amongst the ill-assorted elements around him.

’Have you seen that poor girl since I was last at your house, Mr Prothero, and how is she to-day?’ inquires the heiress.

’She asked to see me yesterday, and I went to her.  She seemed more composed, and liked being read to; but she is in a very precarious state.’

‘Is your father more reconciled to her being with you?’

’Not at all.  And it certainly is very unfortunate.  But he would not allow her to be neglected now she is thrown on his kindness.’

‘I wish she had never come,’ interposed Netta, who had ventured to cross the room to Miss Gwynne.

’Have you heard of the great catch you are all likely to have, Miss Gwynne?’ here broke in Sir Hugh Pryse, of stentorian reputation.

‘I do not know what you mean,’ said Miss Gwynne.

’Why, Mr Rice Rice tells me there is more than a hundred thousand pounds to be raffled for by all the young ladies in the country.  They have simply to put themselves into the lottery, and only one can have the prize.’

‘I never knew you so figurative before.  Sir Hugh.’  ’Don’t pay any attention to him, Miss Gwynne,’ said a fresh addition to the circle that stood round that young lady’s chair.  ’He means that old Griffey Jenkins, the miser, is dead, and that Howel comes into all his immense wealth.’

Miss Gwynne gave her head such a magnificent toss that her neck looked quite strained.

’I do not imagine many young ladies will purchase tickets in that lottery,’ she said, with a stress upon the ‘young ladies.’

‘I have no doubt there are dozens who would, and will, do it at once,’ responded Sir Hugh.  ’And quite right too.  Such a fortune is not to be had every day.’

‘But it is gentlemen, and not ladies, who are fortune-hunters,’ said Miss Gwynne, changing her tone, when she suddenly perceived that Netta’s face and neck were crimson.

But the subject was become quite an interesting piece of local gossip, and, one after another, all the party joined in it.

’Howel Jenkins might make anything of himself if he would but be steady,’ said Mr Rice Rice.

‘Except a gentleman by birth,’ said his lady.

‘Or the least bit of an archaeologist,’ said Mr Jonathan Prothero.  ’I tried one day—­you will scarcely believe it, Mr Gwynne—­to make him understand that Garn Goch was an old British encampment, but he would not take it in.’

’Ah, really; I do not very much wonder myself, for I cannot quite “take in” those heaps of stones and all that sort of thing,’ responded the host.

‘What can they find to interest them in that sort of person?’ asked Lady Mary in an aside to Mr Gwynne.

Miss Gwynne overheard it, and answered for her father.

’He is a young man of great talent, very rich, very handsome, and has had a miser for a father.  Is not that the case Mr Rowland?’