"You ought to go," she said at breakfast. "The Hendons may be very useful to you in your career."
"I wish these pork-butchers wouldn't use English Place-names," he said, taking more honey. "Why can't they stick to their age-old family names? I shouldn't mind Lord Isaacs, or Lord Smith, or Lord—what was this chap's name?—oh yes, Lord Hoggenheimer—but Lord Hendon! Yes, thank you, half a cup. This is a very jolly little place you've got here. Have you taken it for the whole of the summer?"
"Yes, dear, you know I have, so don't try to turn the subject. Even if his name were still Hoggenheimer, Lord Hendon might be useful to you. He's something very important in the city."
"Perhaps I shall meet him some other time, when he'll be able to realise my existence and be attracted by my interesting personality. He couldn't do that at a crowded garden-party, you know."
"You don't know Lord Hendon," she told him; "he could do anything anywhere. Why, he once bought a gold-mine from a man he met quite casually in the fish department of the Army and Navy Stores."
"Still keeps his old villa-dwelling habits? Brings home a little bit of fish to placate the missus when he's going to be late home. Now I respect him for that—most men bring flowers or diamonds."
"Don't be silly," said his mother serenely. "I want you to meet him, and that ought to be enough. Besides, I've got a new frock on purpose; crêpe-de-chine in about six shades of heliotrope and pink and blue."
"Oh," said John, "of course that settles it."
And indeed, he felt it did.
"And a new hat," she went on. "It really is a dream. So you will go?"
"All right, dear," he said, "I'll go, since you've set your heart and your frock and your hat on it. I must catch a train to-night, though, so I'll send my traps to the station,
