Inasmuch as the scene of this story is that historic pile, BelpherCastle, in the county of Hampshire, it would be an agreeable taskto open it with a leisurely description of the place, followed bysome notes on the history of the Earls of Marshmoreton, who haveowned it since the fifteenth century. Unfortunately, in these daysof rush and hurry, a novelist works at a disadvantage. He mustleap into the middle of his tale with as little delay as he wouldemploy in boarding a moving tramcar. He must get off the mark withthe smooth swiftness of a jack-rabbit surprised while lunching.

　　Otherwise, people throw him aside and go out to picture palaces.

　　I may briefly remark that the present Lord Marshmoreton is awidower of some forty-eight years: that he has two children--a son,Percy Wilbraham Marsh, Lord Belpher, who is on the brink of histwenty-first birthday, and a daughter, Lady Patricia Maud Marsh,who is just twenty: that the chatelaine of the castle is LadyCaroline Byng, Lord Marshmoreton's sister, who married the verywealthy colliery owner, Clifford Byng, a few years before his death(which unkind people say she hastened): and that she has astep-son, Reginald. Give me time to mention these few facts and Iam done. On the glorious past of the Marshmoretons I will not eventouch.

　　Luckily, the loss to literature is not irreparable. LordMarshmoreton himself is engaged upon a history of the family, whichwill doubtless be on every bookshelf as soon as his lordship getsit finished. And, as for the castle and its surroundings, includingthe model dairy and the amber drawing-room, you may see them foryourself any Thursday, when Belpher is thrown open to the public onpayment of a fee of one shilling a head. The money is collected byKeggs the butler, and goes to a worthy local charity. At least,that is the idea. But the voice of calumny is never silent, andthere exists a school of thought, headed by Albert, the page-boy,which holds that Keggs sticks to these shillings like glue, andadds them to his already considerable savings in the Farmers' andMerchants' Bank, on the left side of the High Street in Belphervillage, next door to the Oddfellows' Hall.

　　With regard to this, one can only say that Keggs looks far too muchlike a particularly saintly bishop to indulge in any such practices.

　　On the other hand, Albert knows Keggs. We must leave the matteropen.

　　Of course, appearances are deceptive. Anyone, for instance, who hadbeen standing outside the front entrance of the castle at eleveno'clock on a certain June morning might easily have made a mistake.

　　Such a person would probably have jumped to the conclusion that themiddle-aged lady of a determined cast of countenance who wasstanding near the rose-garden, talking to the gardener and watchingthe young couple strolling on the terrace below, was the mother ofthe pretty girl, and that she was smiling because the latter hadrecently become engaged to the tall, pleasant-faced youth at herside.