When bright-faced Lulu had returned home, brief though her visit had been, Harold missed her inexpressibly. To vary the monotony of his dreary rooms, he paid his promised call in Victoria Square, to find himself promptly relegated to the background by Miss Waller, who perfectly understood how to snub people without being unladylike. May, who made tea, hardly uttered a word; and the lion of the occasion was Mr. Lang, who expatiated on the riches of South Africa and his own importance on the Randt.
"You're nowhere unless you've got money nowadays," he confidently asserted.
"Oh, but"—expostulated a meek little clergyman's wife, looking rather shocked, "surely culture goes for something—and descent—and——"
"Culture, descent, my dear madam! We haven't time to bother about such things at Johannesburg! They'd be no use to a man there!"
"I'm sorry to hear it," Harold was provoked into saying. "My brother Jack is out there, and I shouldn't like him to come back less of a gentleman than he went!"
"What's he doing?" disdainfully drawled the plutocrat.
"He is in the office of the Victorina Mine."
"Ah! a good property that—not equal to the Springkloof, though. I know the Victorina manager; perhaps next time I go out, I may look your brother up."
"How kind of you, Mr. Lang!" gushed Miss Waller; but Harold never said a word.