might fall upon his head like a shadowy halo from their horses and
carriages, their dinners and garden-parties. He did not like,
therefore, to introduce into his sister's house anybody that Robert
Monteith, that moneyed man of oil, in the West African trade, might
consider an undesirable acquaintance. But as time wore on, and
Bertram's new clothes came home from the tailor's, it began to
strike the Civil Servant's mind that the mysterious Alien, though
he excited much comment and conjecture in Brackenhurst, was
accepted on the whole by local society as rather an acquisition to
its ranks than otherwise. He was well off: he was well dressed: he
had no trade or profession: and Brackenhurst, undermanned, hailed
him as a godsend for afternoon teas and informal tennis-parties.
That ineffable air of distinction as of one royal born, which
Philip had noticed at once the first evening they met, seemed to
strike and impress almost everybody who saw him. People felt he was
mysterious, but at any rate he was Someone. And then he had been
everywhere--except in Europe; and had seen everything--except their
own society: and he talked agreeably when he was not on taboos: and
in suburban towns, don't you know, an outsider who brings fresh
blood into the field--who has anything to say we do not all know
beforehand--is always welcome! So Brackenhurst accepted Bertram
Ingledew before long, as an eccentric but interesting and romantic
person.

Not that he stopped much in Brackenhurst itself. He went up to town
every day almost as regularly as Robert Monteith and Philip
Christy. He had things he wanted to observe there, he said, for the
work he was engaged upon. And the work clearly occupied the best
part of his energies. Every night he came down to Brackenhurst
with his notebook crammed full of modern facts and illustrative