A polite stranger who sat close to us turned round with a pleasant smile.  “Would you allow me to offer you one?” he said, drawing a copy from his pocket.  “I fancy I bought the last.  There’s a run on them to-day, you see.  Important news this morning from the Transvaal.”

Charles raised his eyebrows, and accepted it, as I thought, just a trifle grumpily.  So, to remove the false impression his surliness might produce on so benevolent a mind, I entered into conversation with the polite stranger.  He was a man of middle age, and medium height, with a cultivated air, and a pair of gold pince-nez; his eyes were sharp; his voice was refined; he dropped into talk before long about distinguished people just then in Brighton.  It was clear at once that he was hand in glove with many of the very best kind.  We compared notes as to Nice, Rome, Florence, Cairo.  Our new acquaintance had scores of friends in common with us, it seemed; indeed, our circles so largely coincided, that I wondered we had never happened till then to knock up against one another.

“And Sir Charles Vandrift, the great African millionaire,” he said at last, “do you know anything of him?  I’m told he’s at present down here at the Métropole.”

I waved my hand towards the person in question.

“This is Sir Charles Vandrift,” I answered, with proprietary pride; “and I am his brother-in-law, Mr. Seymour Wentworth.”

“Oh, indeed!” the stranger answered, with a curious air of drawing in his horns.  I wondered whether he had just been going to pretend he knew Sir Charles, or whether perchance he was on the point of saying something highly uncomplimentary, and was glad to have escaped it.

By this time, however, Charles laid down the paper and chimed into our conversation.  I could see at once from his mollified tone that the news from the Transvaal was favourable to his operations in Cloetedorp Golcondas.  He was therefore in a friendly and affable temper.  His whole manner changed at once.  He grew polite in return to the polite stranger.  Besides, we knew the man moved in the best society; he had acquaintances whom Amelia was most anxious to secure for her “At Homes” in Mayfair—­young Faith, the novelist, and Sir Richard Montrose, the great Arctic traveller.  As for the painters, it was clear that he was sworn friends with the whole lot of them.  He dined with Academicians, and gave weekly breakfasts to the members of the Institute.  Now, Amelia is particularly desirous that her salon should not be considered too exclusively financial and political in character:  with a solid basis of M.P.’s and millionaires, she loves a delicate under-current of literature, art, and the musical glasses.  Our new acquaintance was extremely communicative:  “Knows his place in society, Sey,” Sir Charles said to me afterwards, “and is therefore not afraid of talking freely, as so many people are who have doubts about their position.”  We exchanged cards before we rose.  Our new friend’s name turned out to be Dr. Edward Polperro.