"Why? What have they been doing now?" asked Captain Whalley with a sort of amused absent-mindedness.
"Doing! Doing nothing. That's just it. Lawn-tennis and silly novels from morning to night. . . ."
If one of them at least had been a boy. But all three! And, as ill-luck would have it, there did not seem to be any decent young fellows left in the world. When he looked around in the club he saw only a lot of conceited popinjays too selfish to think of making a good woman happy. Extreme indigence stared him in the face with all that crowd to keep at home. He had cherished the idea of building himself a little house in the country--in Surrey--to end his days in, but he was afraid it was out of the question, . . . and his staring eyes rolled upwards with such a pathetic anxiety that Captain Whalley charitably nodded down at him, restraining a sort of sickening desire to laugh.
"You must know what it is yourself, Harry. Girls are the very devil for worry and anxiety."
"Ay! But mine is doing well," Captain Whalley pronounced slowly, staring to the end of the avenue.
The Master-Attendant was glad to hear this. Uncommonly glad. He remembered her well. A pretty girl she was.
Captain Whalley, stepping out carelessly, assented as if in a dream.
"She was pretty."
The procession of carriages was breaking up.
One after another they left the file to go off at a trot, animating the vast avenue with their scattered life and movement; but soon the aspect of dignified
