“Don't let the Commodore get at me before dinner; that's all I ask,” said Sir Arthur, as he rode round to the stables.
When Alice entered the house, she found Mark at the open window watching with an opera-glass the progress of the jaunting-car as it slowly wound along the turns of the approach, lost and seen as the woods intervened or opened.
“I cannot make it out at all, Alice,” said he; “there are two men and two women, as well as I can see, besides the driver.”
“No, no; they have their maid, whom you mistake for a man.”
“Then the maid wears a wideawake and a paletot. Look, and see for yourself;” and he handed her the glass.
“I declare you are right,—it is a man; he is beside Beck. Sally is on the side with her father.”
“Are they capable of bringing some one along with them?” cried he, in horror. “Do you think they would dare to take such a liberty as that here?”
“I 'm certain they would not. It must be Kenrose the apothecary, who was coming to see one of the maids, or one of our own people, or—” Her further conjectures were cut short by the outburst of so strong an expletive as cannot be repeated; and Mark, pale as death, stammered out, “It's Maitland! Norman Maitland!”
“But how, Mark, do they know him?”
“Confound them! who can tell how it happened?” said he., “I 'll not meet him; I 'll leave the house,—I 'll not face such an indignity.”