LORD ARRANMORE’S AMUSEMENTS

“The domestic virtues,” Lord Arranmore said softly to himself, “being denied to me, the question remains how to pass one’s time.”

He rose wearily from his seat, and walking to the window looked out upon St. James’s Square.  A soft rain hung about the lamp-posts, the pavements were thick with umbrellas.  He returned to his chair with a shrug of the shoulders.

“The only elucidation from outside seems to be a change of climate,” he mused.  “I should prefer to think of something more original.  In the meantime I will write to that misguided young man in Medchester.”

He drew paper and pen towards him and began to write.  Even his handwriting seemed a part of the man—­cold, shapely, and deliberate.

“My dear Brooks,

“I have been made acquainted through Mr. Ascough with your desire to leave the new firm of Morrison and Brooks, and while I congratulate you very much upon the fact itself, I regret equally the course of reasoning which I presume led to your decision.  You will probably have heard from Mr. Ascough by this time on a matter of business.  You are, by birth, Lord Kingston of Ross, and the possessor of the Kingston income, which amounts to a little over two thousand a year.  Please remember that this comes to you not through any grace or favour of mine, but by your own unalienable right as the eldest son of the Marquis of Arranmore.  I cannot give it to you.  I cannot withhold it from you.  If you refuse to take it the amount must accumulate for your heirs, or in due time find its way to the Crown.  Leave the tithe alone by all means, if you like, but do not carry quixotism to the borders of insanity by declining to spend your own money, and thereby cramp your life.

“I trust to hear from Mr. Ascough of your more reasonable frame of mind, and while personally I agree with you that we are better apart, you can always rely upon me if I can be of any service to you.

“Yours sincerely,

“Arranmore.”

He read the letter through thoughtfully and folded it up.

“I really don’t see what the young fool can kick about in that,” he said, throwing it into the basket.  “Well, Hennibul, how are you?”

Mr. Hennibul, duly ushered in by a sedate butler, pronounced himself both in words and appearance fit and well.  He took a chair and a cigarette, and looked about him approvingly.

“Nice house, yours, Arranmore.  Nice old-fashioned situation, too.  Why don’t you entertain?”

“No friends, no inclination, no womankind!”

Mr. Hennibul smiled incredulously.

“Your card plate is chock-full,” he said, “and there are a dozen women in town at least of your connections who’d do the polite things by you.  As to inclination—­well, one must do something.”

“That’s about the most sensible thing you have said, Hennibul,” Arranmore remarked.  “I’ve just evoked the same fact out of my own consciousness.  One must do something.  It’s tiresome, but it’s quite true.”  Politics?