"Read for yourself;" and Mr. Prescott tossed the letter over to him.
"Mrs. Schröder--garden fête--Uplands," said Pringle, reading. "Oh, ah! I knew all about that, but I didn't mention it, because I wasn't sure that you'd be asked; and as a certing persing is going, you'd have been as mad as a hatter at losing the chance of meeting her."
"What's Uplands?" asked Prescott.
"Uplands is no end of a jolly place which Schröder has taken for the summer and autumn. He has got some tremendous operation in the mines, or the funds, or some of those things that those City fellows get so brutally rich with; and he must be in town two or three times a week. So instead of going to Switzerland, as he intended, he has rented Uplands, which is about seven miles from town, and might be seventy. Out north way, through Whittington; stunning Italian villa, fitted up no end, with conservatories, and big grounds, and a lake, and all sorts of fun. Belonged to another City buffer, who's over-speculated himself and gone to Boulogne. That is a comfort; they do go to smash sometimes; but even then they've generally settled as much as the Chief Commissioner's income on their wives. Schröder heard of this; pounced upon it at once; and this is to be Mrs. Schröder's first garden-party."
"I'm very glad I'm asked, if--"
"Glad you're asked! I should think so; it'll be a first-rate party. There'll be no shy ices or Cape cup; Gunter does the commissariat; the Foreign Office has been instructed to send a lot of eligible Counts; and Edgington will supply the marquee."
"I was going to say, when you were kind enough to interrupt me, that I'm glad I'm asked, if Miss Murray is to be there."
"She'll be there, sir, fast enough; and you shall devote yourself to her, and be the Murray's Guide; and I'll be your courier, and go before you to see that all is square. I mean to enjoy myself that day, and no mistake."
"This is the place, Jim!" said Mr. Pringle, as on the day of the party they drove in a hansom along a meadow-bordered road some two miles the country side of the little village of Whittington. "That's the house, that white building with the high tower; no end of a smoke-room that tower makes! it's fitted up with lounges and Indian matting; all the windows hook outwards, and there's a view all over every where! What a lot of traps, too!--like the outside of the Star and Garter on a Sunday afternoon. That's the Guards' drag, I suppose; I know there was a lot of them coming down--"
"And there's old Murray's carriage; I'd know that any where," interrupted Prescott.