“Now I’m no longer in service, and have some prospects, I want to find out if she will marry me!”
“So it’s got as far as that, has it?”
“No, it has not even started. Last time we met, she would not speak to me.”
“And what are you going on, then?”
“A mere chance. I believe there was a—a—misunderstanding, so a friend told me; anyway, she’s the only girl I could ever care for.”
Sir Richard became more and more interested. Could it be possible that Owen had inherited such loyal devotion from himself?
“Who is she?” he asked.
“She is Miss Morven, daughter of the Rector at Ottinge and the Parretts’ niece. She sometimes came out in the motor, and I used to see her in the garden.”
“And how did you make love to her—language of flowers, hey?”
“No; I never was anything but the chauffeur. I see by the Scotsman she is up at Lossiemouth with her uncle, General Morven.”