"Yes, one of my few relations—I've not seen him for fourteen years."
"Ah! I wish to goodness I could say the same of some of mine!" rejoined the A.D.C., throwing himself back in his luxurious club chair, and striking a match. "Let me tell you that your kinsman is a rare good sort—one of the real, sporting, open-handed lot that, I'm sorry to say, are getting a bit scarce. He does you rattling well, likes to have his house full—sometimes the guests overflow into tents! He's awfully popular, too, and it's not cupboard love! Latterly he has given up riding races, and his Missus bars polo; but he is a capital racquet player, and as for dancing, there isn't a girl in the place who wouldn't throw me over for a turn with him. You are staying there—Hooper's Gardens."
"Is that what it's called?"
"Yes, but mind you, it's not like our Grosvenor Gardens, or Chesterfield Gardens, at home; these houses—sort of nabobs' palaces—built by merchants in the Fort, were where they took refuge during the long-shore winds, such as we have to-day. There is a big dinner on to-night. By the way, you have seen Mrs. Tallboys?"
"No, not yet."
"One of the best! Awfully rich, but, bar the hospitality, you'd swear she had not a sou; keeps a sort of Home of Rest for Invalids, and a Matrimonial Agency for girls; what she gives to charity on the quiet would pay for a polo club—or run a racing stable."
"Great Scott!" ejaculated Mallender.
"Well, to-morrow I'll expect you out at Guindy, A.D.C.'s quarters. We will have a practice, you can write your name in the book, and in the cool of the evening I'll drive you in—how's that?"
"All right, you're very kind."
"Not a bit of it, you are going to get me out of a big hole. The season is in full swing, you are just in the nick of time."