On the Thursday named as the day for his meeting Douglas Rivers’ little girl at the rural railroad station, Charles Cameron dressed himself in his finest suit and bowler hat, not forgetting his spats, hitched up the roan mare to the surrey and set out to meet the train. He had spent a rather restless night, reflecting on his folly at having shown such a humanitarian attitude to old Rivers. On the other hand, Rivers had taken advantage of his good nature in a rather maudlin way. However, there was nothing that would be done about it now. There would be problems with a child, especially a female. It would be well if he looked about the neighborhood to see if he could hire a housekeeper, and make temporary plans for the summer. It would probably curtail his own intended endeavors in the amorous field, but that was the price he would have to pay.

It was a beautiful day, not too hot, with a balmy breeze, and the roan mare trotted proudly down the thickly arbored lane towards town and the station. It was a pleasant little town, Charles Cameron felt, with sufficient shops, including a greengrocer who catered to a rather wealthy clientele and thus stocked, in addition to fine melons and strawberries and raspberries from the Continent an excellent wine cellar. Charles Cameron was fond of port and, at times, good German hock, though there were times when a good sparkling Burgundy suited his palate to a T. The town itself had a population of about seventeen hundred, and most of the residents were affluent country squires or retired pensioners who had had good fortune in their ventures on Fleet Street or speculating in the stock market Altogether, there were refined country gentry here, quite different from the hustle and bustle of London.