“I’m jiggered if I do,” returns Mr. Giles. “There was some talk about—of my making the notes come due at a certain time; then Dyesart, he up and says ‘that might prove awkward to you, make them on demand after a certain date.’ And then—but I forget how we fixed it up at last. Don’t exactly ‘recco-member.’”
“At any rate, uncle,” says Miss Mundella, rising and moving towards her relative, with the dignified grace an empress might have envied, “at any rate, we can be sure of this, that if this nephew finds the notes, or even has a knowledge that you ever obtained money from his uncle under a written contract to return the same, you will pretty certainly have to pay up. I feel sure this was the meaning of Dyesart getting young Angland to come all this way up here. I can’t see what else it can be. By-the-bye, I have young Angland’s photograph here. Would you like to see it?”
“How the dev——” begins Giles, but correcting himself continues, “How the goodness did you come by that? You’re a wonder! Swelp me if you’re not.”
“Oh, I made my arrangements,” answers Lileth in her rich, contralto voice. And this is all the young lady deigns to reply.
Holding the photograph in her firm, white hand all the time her uncle is looking at it, Miss Mundella continues: “And now, once for all, uncle, you will please leave the whole matter to me. You will spoil my plans, possibly, if you interfere. You can assist our mutual objects, however, in this way: you can refrain from drinking too much whilst young Angland is here. You are horribly indiscreet when you have had too much. And another thing, be ready to take any hints of mine, and don’t cross me in anything I propose.”
Just as the low, steady voice closes its melodious utterings, the door of the drawing-room is flung open, and a white, fluttering female figure appears upon its threshold.
It is that of an exceedingly pretty young girl, petite and (strange to say in this part of the world) rosy. A wondrous mane of golden-yellow hair falls about her dimpled cheeks and symmetrical neck and shoulders in such profusion that she has the appearance, as the lamps in the room shine upon her, of being surrounded with an aureole of silken rays of light. In fact, as she stands in the framework of the doorway, before the dark background of the passage, hesitating whether to disturb the two people in the room, her figure for all the world might be that of a miraculous picture of an angel of light, about to come to life and interrupt the machinations of those evil-minded plotters before her, who glance up anxiously at this interruption to their interview.
“Oh, papa, I’m afraid you’re busy. I didn’t mean, truly, to interrupt you. Shall I run away?”
“No, my dear, not at all,” responds Mr. Giles, rising, and evidently glad to thus close the tête-à-tête with his dark-browed niece. “Come on to the verandah, Glory, and talk to me whilst I have a cigar. There’s nothing more to say, I suppose, Lileth? I leave all to you.”
“No, uncle, nothing more,” replies Miss Mundella, adding, “Don’t keep dear Glory out too long in the cold. She’s not fever proof, and the cool evenings here are dangerous to people from the south. You’ll come in, dear, presently, and give us a little Mendelssohn before supper, won’t you?”