unable," and thus he was prepared for the inevitable annual question—
"I say, Blake, how many invitations have I accepted for next week?"
"None, my lord."
"Good. Nothing to prevent me from running down to Stranleigh Park?"
"Nothing, my lord."
"All right; I'll spend the week-end there, at least."
Blake always smiled at this.
"You needn't grin, Mr. Blake. I'm not actuated by sentiment, as you appear to think; a visit to the ancestral home; one's cherished birthplace, and all that sort of thing. No; I can enjoy there what is quite impossible in London: an old and very disreputable suit of knickerbockers, so dilapidated that if worn outside the limits of Stranleigh Park I should run a risk of being arrested as a vagrant. Once at Stranleigh Park I may not return to London at once. Blake, you're grinning again! It's a bad habit. Avoid it. Truth is, I've got some new fishing tackle that I wish to test. I love an old stream, old clothes, and new tackle. Besides, by the lassitude that's coming over Ponderby, I know he wishes to visit his relatives, though he will sacrifice
