"Yes, but I am rather ashamed to take up his time; he is most awfully busy just now."
"That's true; he works like a horse for another man, and yet he would not put out a finger to save the estate, when it was his own. I suppose you have heard the tale?"
"Well—Dawson did say something about trouble, and absence——"
"Yes, the death of his wife broke Laurence Travers' heart, and the loss of the child nearly sent him off his head."
"He seems fairly sane now," remarked her listener.
"Yes, case of locking the stable door when the steed—or the estate—is gone. Laurence is much too emotional for a man; it was lucky for him that Fairplains was bought by Tom Fletcher, who was sent out here for his health. He is rich, entirely independent of coffee; such a good old fellow, who always looks kindly on the under dog!"
"And Travers was very much under?"
"In the depths," was the emphatic reply; "he was dragged into unknown liabilities by Doria, his manager—an absconding thief. Thanks to Tom Fletcher, he has been set on his legs again; but he only has his monthly screw—should anything happen to Laurence, that girl will be destitute."
"Well, we will hope for the best," said Mayne cheerfully. "Travers looks as active as if he were five and twenty—more than a match for young Byng," nodding towards the players. "I hope he may live long, and be always as happy as he is now!"
"Happy! that is just the word. Did you ever behold anything like the absolute adoration that exists between father and daughter? She is a dear child, but too elemental to be sophisticated, in spite of her eleven years at home. You see her heart was always out here. She is quite a unique flapper, and plays tennis like a boy. What a strong service—do look!"