I had got my pile--not one of the big ones, but good enough for me; and I had figured out all kinds of ways of enjoying myself.

My father had brought me out from Scotland at the age of six, and I had never been home since; so England was a sort of Arabian Nights to me, and I counted on stopping there for the rest of my days.
But from the first I was disappointed with it.

In about a week I was tired of seeing sights, and in less than a month I had had enough of restaurants and theatres and race-meetings.

I had no real pal to go about with, which probably explains things.

Plenty of people invited me to their houses, but they didn't seem much interested in me.