Georgina's next experience was of a more comic character; her conquest was no longer a nobleman, but a "noble." Jones di Monte-Ferrato was a Maltese noble. He possessed certain rights of nobility in the island, his income was derived from the sale of Maltese oranges; in fact he was the titular head of Jones and Co., the well-known fruit house of Thames Street. In Thames Street, Jones di Monte-Ferrato said nothing about his nobility, he was "our Mr. Jones." But on his visiting cards was a portentous crown, and Jones di Monte-Ferrato habitually wore a coloured boutonnière in his frock coat; being red, this decoration was popularly supposed to be the Legion of Honour: it had been purchased however, and purchased cheaply, from the Pope. Jones' nobility carried him far in Maida Vale and Bayswater. Needless to tell, Miss Warrender would have nothing to say to him.
To say that Georgie Warrender was perfectly heartwhole as she unfolded Haggard's letter, is nothing but the truth. Of course she liked young Haggard, but so did every one. Haggard had enjoyed an extraordinary popularity. Related as he was to the Earl of Pit Town, he was a welcome guest in the best houses. He had been a dancing man, and could dance well, was exceedingly good-looking, and consequently a catch at the small and earlies and also at more elaborate entertainments. When a very young man he had been a detrimental, having rapidly dissipated his little fortune. Penniless, he went to America; in eight years he returned, well off, as good-looking as ever, and with the possibility, the extremely unlikely possibility, of one day succeeding to the earldom of Pit Town. There are some men who always fall on their feet, some men for whom fortune is never tired of turning up trumps; Haggard was one of these men. When it is said that Haggard was a man of the world in its broadest sense, nothing remains to tell. If he had a religion at all it was the worship of his own dear self. Big Reginald remembered Georgie Warrender as a chit of twelve; he met her again one of the brightest ornaments of London society; he heard her spoken of there as handsome Miss Warrender; and just as he would have longed for a very valuable hunter to carry his sixteen stone to hounds, so he desired to obtain Georgie's hand; because without doubt she was the handsomest, healthiest, pleasantest and most unexceptionable girl it had ever been his good fortune to come across.
The letter seemed honest enough, it was short and to the point.
"Dear Miss Warrender,
"You will probably not be surprised at my addressing you on a subject important to us both. We have known each other since the time when you were a little girl and I was a big bad boy. I don't trouble you with business matters, but I have spoken to Mr. Warrender and fully satisfied him on that head. It is with his approbation that I ask you to become my wife. I know that the very remote possibility of a coronet will not weigh with you, but I do think you ought to let it count against my disadvantages. You will get this at breakfast time. I shall ride over about eleven to urge my suit in person; may I hope that your good nature will spare me the negative I doubtless deserve, and that you will give me a chance?
"Yours very affectionately,
"Reginald Haggard."
As Georgie replaced the letter in its envelope she blushed; had Haggard been indifferent to her she would not have hung out this signal of distress. It is impossible to follow the course of reasoning of a woman's mind. Georgie Warrender was no raw girl to be caught by the mere good looks of big Reginald. But first impressions go a great way; she remembered the young fellow in the reckless daring of his first youth; she remembered, too, her feeling of pity when she heard of the prodigal's banishment to a far country to feed the proverbial swine. Georgie remembered, too, the triumphant return of that prodigal some six months ago. She had been pleased at the prodigal's attentions, and she knew that many girls, of far greater social pretensions than her own, would willingly have accepted the addresses of the bronzed, curly-headed giant with the big moustache. Perhaps she would have been wiser had she taken counsel with Miss Hood, or had she deliberated more calmly. But Georgie was a self-reliant girl. Even now she heard the measured tread of her lover's hack as he trotted up to the hall door of The Warren. She looked at her watch, it wanted five minutes of the hour. Miss Warrender smiled at her lover's excessive punctuality; his impatience boded well she thought.
Another instant and he is striding down the path of the rose garden; a happy look is on his face, though it is slightly pale with suppressed excitement. Georgie Warrender's pink roses attain a damask hue as she rises to greet him.
Fortune, fickle goddess, still befriends her favourite. There was no outward sign of hesitation or diffidence about Haggard, as he held out his hand to Miss Warrender.
"It's very good of you to see me; I'm afraid I don't deserve it," he said, seating himself beside her on the rustic bench, and, man-like, commencing to bore holes in the gravel with the stout ash-plant which he carried. Youth and maid decorously continued to gaze upon the ground and to critically study their own foot coverings. Haggard was a man who looked well in any dress, but the grey tweed suit which he wore, the artistic bit of red of his loosely-tied sailor's knot, his big grey felt hat, his leggings also of tweed, even his stout but well-made lace-up boots seem to give the young giant the needful halo of romance. This, the usual morning dress of a young English gentleman in the country, is what is generally selected as the costume of the hero of an Adelphi drama, when that wonderful young man is discovered in his virtuous home prior to the commencement of his numerous sufferings and hair-breadth escapes. As for Georgie, the conventional French muslin set off her faultless figure, a large Leghorn hat protected her delicate complexion from the sun's rays, her magnificent hair was worn in the rather severe Grecian style, but then the big plait at the back was all her own, and the bronze chestnut locks, tightly strained as they were around her head, disclosed the small shell-like ear, that sign of breeding which it is impossible to counterfeit. Probably Georgie Warrender had been right when, as a girl, she had declined to have those pretty ears pierced. If we accept the hypothesis that beauty unadorned is adorned the most, then Georgie in her native loveliness was, indeed, highly decorated. But she was nervous in this formal tête-à-tête; this showed itself in her heightened colour, which was still maintained, and in the occasional movement of her delicately fashioned little bronze shoes. As Sir John Suckling said long ago:
"Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice peeped in and out,