To give her some idea of the place he bought a dozen or two photographs and stuffed them in his pockets; then he saw a trinket cleverly made of the tiniest shells set in silver, and he bought that.
Some little time he spent sitting on a seat on the walk round the Capstan Hill, and would have stayed longer, but suddenly there came round the corner a figure he knew.
It was that of Colonel Floyd. Blair, forgetting that he was supposed to be on the Continent, was just jumping up to greet him with a hearty "Hallo, old man!" when he remembered himself, and catching up a newspaper, got behind it. The colonel lounged past in his languid, nil admirari fashion, and passed out of sight.
Blair let the paper fall, and for the first time that morning his face grew clouded.
"Confound all this mystery and concealment!" he muttered, impatiently. "By George! I'll have no more of it! I hate this skulking about like a bank-clerk who has bolted with the till and is dodging the detectives. I'll have no more of it! I'll take Madge to the earl next week, and make a clean breast of it. Even he can't be such a savage as not to melt at that smile of hers."
The resolution brightened him, as all good resolutions do, and considering that the colt had had rest enough, he went back to the hotel, and ordered him to be brought round.
The colt was in excellent spirits, and Blair rode along, humming a song and thinking of Margaret—and his dinner.
The color tubes rattled in his pockets, and his bulging pockets banged against his side, but he didn't mind in the least; he was doing something for his Madge.
By this time—he had not hurried going, and had been a good spell in the pretty town—the sun was setting, and the black mass of cloud was rising portentously.