“Not much of a one, sir. I keep a shooting gallery, but not much of a one.”
“And what kind of a shot and what kind of a swordsman do you make of Mr. Carstone?” said my guardian.
“Pretty good, sir,” he replied, folding his arms upon his broad chest and looking very large. “If Mr. Carstone was to give his full mind to it, he would come out very good.”
“But he don’t, I suppose?” said my guardian.
“He did at first, sir, but not afterwards. Not his full mind. Perhaps he has something else upon it—some young lady, perhaps.” His bright dark eyes glanced at me for the first time.
“He has not me upon his mind, I assure you, Mr. George,” said I, laughing, “though you seem to suspect me.”
He reddened a little through his brown and made me a trooper’s bow. “No offence, I hope, miss. I am one of the roughs.”
“Not at all,” said I. “I take it as a compliment.”
If he had not looked at me before, he looked at me now in three or four quick successive glances. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said to my guardian with a manly kind of diffidence, “but you did me the honour to mention the young lady’s name—”
“Miss Summerson.”