“And how is my dear old pal, Joss?”
“Getting a little stout for want of exercise.”
“I’d no idea you knew Ottinge so well,” put in Mrs. Morven. “What a memory you have!”
“For some things, my memory is like a rat-trap, and for others my mind is a blank.”
“I suppose you stayed at Westmere for the shooting?” broke in the General.
“No; but”—and he glanced at Aurea—“I’ve often been there. What has become of Bertie Woolcock?”
“Oh, by Jove! didn’t you hear? He went off to India to shoot big game, and got caught himself! A very pretty, smart American girl he met on board ship—no money—so on this occasion Uncle Sam has scored as regards the dollars.”
By this time dinner had been brought to a close with large cups of milky coffee, and the Morven party rose and drifted into the hall. It was Aurea’s custom to sit out on the verandah with her uncle as he smoked; her aunt betook herself and her neuralgia into the drawing-room and there sat knitting amidst an agreeable circle of matrons—chiefly Scotch. To-night, she half expected Aurea to accompany her, and the young lady herself was undecided. The two elder men were lingering in the hall, lighting up, and had already commenced an animated discussion.—Owen had not yet produced his cigar case.—She was on the point of following her chaperon, much as she disliked sitting indoors this exquisite September night, when he said—
“Will you come for a stroll with me?”
She nodded assent, and turned to reach for her wrap with a fast beating heart. The door had already closed on Mrs. Morven’s stately form, and the young couple walked out through the porch, with a matter of course air, and crossed the road towards the golf links and the beach. Sir Richard followed them with his keen little eyes, but General Morven was far too much engrossed in a Service grievance to see beyond his nose.