"You are modest," said Rupert, drily.
"Modesty's my foible; it always was. So, Hey for the sunny South, as I said before.
'O, swallow, swallow, flying, flying South,
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves,
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.'
Any message for the swallow, sir?" touching an imaginary cap. "Shall I say that 'Dark and true and tender is the North,' and 'Fierce and false and fickle is the South,' or any similar statement?"
"I have no message," said Rupert.
"So be it. Do you know anything of young Luttrell—Hugo Luttrell—by-the-bye?"
"Very little. My sister is interested in him."
"He is going to the bad at an uncommonly swift pace—that is all."
"Old Mrs. Luttrell talks of making him her heir," said Vivian. "She asked him down last winter but he wouldn't go."
"I don't wonder at it. She must be a very tough old lady if she thinks that he could shoot there with much pleasure after his cousin's accident."