"Trant!" says Guy, surprised; "impossible. Unless, indeed," with a light laugh, "he came to look after his protégée, the widow."
"Mrs. Arlington? I saw her yesterday," says Taffy, with animation. "She was in her garden, and she is lovely. I never saw anything so perfect as her smile."
"I hope you are not épris with her. We warn everybody against our tenant," Guy says, smiling, though there is evident meaning in his tone. "We took her to oblige Trant,—who begged we would not be inquisitive about her; and literally we are in ignorance of who she is, or where she came from. Widows, like cousins, are dangerous," with a slight glance at his brother, who is leaning back in his chair, a knight between his fingers, taking an exhaustive though nonchalant survey of the painted ceiling, where all the little loves and graces are playing at a very pronounced game of hide-and-seek among the roses.
"I hope," says Florence, slowly, looking up from the rara avis whose tail she is elaborately embroidering,—the original of which was never yet (most assuredly) seen by land or sea,—"I hope Colonel Trant, in this instance, has not played you false. I cannot say I admire Mrs. Arlington's appearance. Though no doubt she is pretty,—in a certain style," concludes Miss Beauchamp, who is an adept at uttering the faint praise that damns.
"Trant is a gentleman," returns Guy, somewhat coldly. Yet as he says it a doubt enters his mind.
"He has the name of being rather fast in town," says young Musgrave, vaguely; "there is some story about his being madly in love with some mysterious woman whom nobody knows. I don't remember exactly how it is,—but they say she is hidden away somewhere."
"How delightfully definite Taffy always is!" Lilian says, admiringly; "it is so easy to grasp his meaning. Got any more stories, Taffy? I quite begin to fancy this Colonel Trant. Is he as captivating as he is wicked?"
"Not quite. I am almost sure I saw him to-day in the lane that runs down between the wood and Brown's farm. But I may be mistaken; I was certainly one or two fields off, yet I have a sure eye, and I have seen him often in London."
"Perhaps Mrs. Arlington is the mysterious lady of his affections," says Guy, laughing, and, the moment the words have passed his lips, regrets their utterance. Cyril's eyes descend rapidly from the ceiling and meet his. On the instant a suspicion unnamed and unacknowledged fills both their hearts.
"Do you really think Trant came down to see your tenant?" asks Cyril, almost defiantly.