Nothing could be more hearty than his manner, and he set me at my ease in an instant.  But it needed all his cordiality to atone for the frigidity and even rudeness of his wife, a tall, haggard woman, who came forward at his summons.  She was, I believe, of Brazilian extraction, though she spoke excellent English, and I excused her manners on the score of her ignorance of our customs.  She did not attempt to conceal, however, either then or afterwards, that I was no very welcome visitor at Greylands Court.  Her actual words were, as a rule, courteous, but she was the possessor of a pair of particularly expressive dark eyes, and I read in them very clearly from the first that she heartily wished me back in London once more.

However, my debts were too pressing and my designs upon my wealthy relative were too vital for me to allow them to be upset by the ill-temper of his wife, so I disregarded her coldness and reciprocated the extreme cordiality of his welcome.  No pains had been spared by him to make me comfortable.  My room was a charming one.  He implored me to tell him anything which could add to my happiness.  It was on the tip of my tongue to inform him that a blank cheque would materially help towards that end, but I felt that it might be premature in the present state of our acquaintance.  The dinner was excellent, and as we sat together afterwards over his Havanas and coffee, which later he told me was specially prepared upon his own plantation, it seemed to me that all my driver’s eulogies were justified, and that I had never met a more large-hearted and hospitable man.

But, in spite of his cheery good nature, he was a man with a strong will and a fiery temper of his own.  Of this I had an example upon the following morning.  The curious aversion which Mrs. Everard King had conceived towards me was so strong, that her manner at breakfast was almost offensive.  But her meaning became unmistakable when her husband had quitted the room.

“The best train in the day is at twelve-fifteen,” said she.

“But I was not thinking of going today,” I answered, frankly—­ perhaps even defiantly, for I was determined not to be driven out by this woman.

“Oh, if it rests with you—­” said she, and stopped with a most insolent expression in her eyes.

“I am sure,” I answered, “that Mr. Everard King would tell me if I were outstaying my welcome.”

“What’s this?  What’s this?” said a voice, and there he was in the room.  He had overheard my last words, and a glance at our faces had told him the rest.  In an instant his chubby, cheery face set into an expression of absolute ferocity.

“Might I trouble you to walk outside, Marshall?” said he. (I may mention that my own name is Marshall King.)

He closed the door behind me, and then, for an instant, I heard him talking in a low voice of concentrated passion to his wife.  This gross breach of hospitality had evidently hit upon his tenderest point.  I am no eavesdropper, so I walked out on to the lawn.  Presently I heard a hurried step behind me, and there was the lady, her face pale with excitement, and her eyes red with tears.