"And you, sir, have not had one!" rejoined his companion, with unexpected audacity.
"Oh—ah—well, yes—that is true—but the fact is, I had an unhappy love affair—(a fiction invented on the spot)—a—a—blighted life—a blighted life!!—it is a—a painful subject."
Here Sir Horace suddenly turned into a narrow footpath, where, as it was necessary to walk in single file, awkward questions were evaded, or postponed.
The subject of "a blighted life" was a spruce, straight-backed gentleman of sixty, with a large hooked nose, and two keen little blue eyes, sheltered by a pair of beetling brows; he dressed in a careful middle-aged style, and wore his clothes, and his years, with ease.
Sir Horace was the seventh Baronet—a resolute old bachelor, who enjoyed a comfortable income, and was on the committee of the Bellona Club. He claimed an immense acquaintance, and was fairly popular, being recognised as a fine judge of a vintage, or a cook, and one of the best bridge players in London. It is painful to add that he was incredibly selfish, and never expended a shilling on any more deserving object than Horace Haig, Baronet, and yet, in a hearty jovial fashion, he contrived to extract an astonishing amount of hospitality and favours, from other people!
Such an individual was naturally the last man in the world to trouble himself respecting his relations—and above all, his poor relations. Nevertheless, on the present occasion he was accompanied by his nephew and heir. Indeed it was in answer to his uncle's warm invitation (but not at his expense) that Captain Haig was visiting Homburg before rejoining his regiment in India.
Malcolm Haig was a well-set-up young officer, with a pair of merry blue eyes, and a touch of sunshine in his closely cropped locks. Sir Horace introduced, with an air of bland complacency, a kinsman who did him credit, made no demands on his patience, nor yet upon his pocket. All the same, he had excellent reason to know that Malcolm was "hard up." His private means were nominal, and he was about to conclude a year's leave in England—a year's leave is often an expensive luxury. Under such circumstances his banker's account would be uncomfortably low—in fact, Malcolm had said as much. Sir Horace was disposed to exert his social influence, and endeavour to do the poor young fellow a good turn. He was handsome and well born; if his purse was lean, he had an adventurous spirit and a susceptible heart.
As uncle and nephew followed the winding path which led to the far-famed Elisabeth Well, the latter was struck by the exceptional beauty of their surroundings, the admirably-kept greensward, the shady trees and flowering shrubs, on which the early dew was still glistening.
There was a delicious perfume of roses in the air, and the inspiriting sound of a string band in the near distance.
"I say," began the young man, now walking beside his companion, "I had no idea that Homburg was like this—half park, half garden, and so pretty."