'Owen, come at last!' cried Howel, hastening up to him with great good will. 'Better late than never. I am very glad to see you, so will be Netta. Travelled early to hide your carpet bag, or whatever it is?'
'Knapsack,' said Owen, shaking his cousin's offered hand; 'I'm off to sea again.'
'A queer road to take; but you come to see us on your way, of course. Let me introduce you to Mr Simpson, Sir John Simpson's son. My cousin, Mr Simpson, my wife's brother.
Owen nodded, and Mr Simpson bowed.
'We're going out fishing, but you'll find Netta—in bed, I'm afraid, but she'll be glad to see you anywhere. Go up the avenue, and let Netta know you've come. We shall be home to dinner at seven. Good-bye for the present.'
Owen did not stay to consider, but walked past the handsome lodge, and up the drive, according to Howel's direction.
'Mighty condescending and very patronising, cousin Howel!' he soliloquised; 'but I will go and see how Netta gets on, and how your highness treats her.'
He reached the house, and rang stoutly at the bell. A servant answered it, who was adjusting his coat just put on, he not having expected such early visitors.
'The back entrance is round the corner there, young man,' were his words on perceiving Owen, whose pride was greatly roused thereby.
'Tell Mrs Howel Jenkins that her brother, Mr Owen Prothero, is here,' said Owen, intending to electrify the man.