“I—no. Not a bit of it,” said Grog, rudely. “I'd rather see a promising two-year-old than all the heroes and all the beauties in Europe.”
“And you, Beecher?” asked she, with a half-smile.
“Well, I've no great wish on the subject. They have both of them cost me rather too heavily to inspire any warm interest in their behalf.”
The words were scarcely uttered, when the large window of the room adjoining the terrace was flung open, and a great flood of light extended to where they stood: at the same moment a gentleman with a lady on his arm advanced towards them.
“Mr. Annesley Beecher is here, I believe?” said the stranger.
“Yes; that is my name, sir,” was the answer.
“Let me claim a cousin's privilege to shake your hand, then,” said the other. “You knew me once as Charles Conway, and my wife claims you as a still older friend.”
“My father bore you the warmest affection,” said Sybella, eagerly.
Beecher could but mutter some half-inarticulate words.
“I have done you what you must feel a cruel injury,” said Conway, “but I believe the game was never yet found out where all could rise winners. There is, however, a slight reparation yet in my power. The lawyers tell me that a separate suit will be required to establish our claim to the Irish estates. Take them, therefore;, you shall never be disturbed in their possession by me or mine. All I ask is, let there be no bad blood between us. Let us be friends.”