"Better than my ordinary luck to find you here," says Sir James, who is in high good humor. "Generally you are miles away when I get to Gowran. And—forgive me—how exceedingly charming you are looking this morning!"
Miss Peyton is clearly not above praise. She laughs,—a delicious rippling little laugh,—and colors faintly.
"A compliment from you!" she says. "No wonder I blush. Am I really lovely, Jim, or only commonly pretty? I should hate to be commonly pretty." She lifts her brows disdainfully.
"You needn't hate yourself," says Scrope, calmly. "Lovely is the word for you."
"I'm rather glad," says Miss Peyton, with a sigh of relief. "If only for—Horace's sake!"
Sir James pitches his cigar over the balcony, and frowns. Always Horace! Can she not forget him for even one moment?
"What brought you?" asks she, presently.
"What a gracious speech!"—with a rather short laugh. "To see you, I fancy. By the by, I met Mrs. Branscombe on my way here. She didn't look particularly happy."
"No." Clarissa's eyes grow sad. "After all, that marriage was a terrible mistake, and it seemed such a satisfactory one. Do you know," in a half-frightened tone, "I begin to think they hate each other?"
"They don't seem to hit it off very well, certainly," says Sir James, moodily. "But I believe there is something more on Branscombe's mind than his domestic worries: I am afraid he is getting into trouble over the farm, and that, and nothing hits a man like want of money. That Sawyer is a very slippery fellow, in my opinion: and of late Dorian has neglected everything and taken no interest in his land, and, in fact, lets everything go without question."