"I suppose you did not happen to see if Mr. Simpson's fire was all right, Mildred?" said Mr. Wilton, with a sly twinkle in his eye.
"No; Ethel did that," she replied, laughing; "besides, with that red face he can't be cold."
"Milly, never judge by appearances," interrupted Mrs. Wingfield, who saw by her uncle's face that the conversation was not particularly agreeable to him. Woman-like, she had read him like a book; and, though willing to keep the peace, she had long ago made up her mind that Mildred was to be her brother's wife or an old maid—aut Cæsar aut nihil; and having settled this, she set herself down to carry out her plans.
"Who is talking about judging by appearances?" put in a manly voice, as Tom Wingfield, somewhat muddy of coat, walked into the room.
"I was," said his wife. "I was telling Milly not to judge by appearances, for I thought you a nice fellow once, and—ahem!—I was taken in by your appearance."
"All right, Mrs. Impudence," retorted Tom; "no hunting for you. I thought I had two beautiful ladies' hunters, but I was deceived by appearances. Anyhow, let me have a cup of tea. I have given my new nag a lesson he won't forget. He refused that fence out of the road by the windmill, and put me down twice; then tried to bolt for Paradise Hill, but after a fight we got on terms, and he goes like an angel now."
"I must make a note of that, Wingfield," interrupted Mr. Wilton. "It is a curious coincidence of an animal being stopped on its way to Paradise, yet suddenly becoming an angel."
"Capital text for next Sunday, Wilton," said the Colonel. "But hark! I hear the dog-cart, and here they come round the corner of the drive."
"Oh Lord!" ejaculates Tom; "can anyone tell me how gray shirtings are? Must talk to a man who is in the City about shirtings or backwardations, you know. I'll ask Jack what he gave for his flannel shirts."
Amid the shouts of laughter which followed this sally the door opened, and the butler announced: "Mr. Simpson and Master Jack."