"Give me Nature!" says Captain Marryatt, breaking into the tête-à-tête a little sulkily. "Nothing like it."
"Is that a proposal?" demands Mr. Gower, raising himself on his elbow, and addressing him with deep interest. "It cannot be Mrs. Bolton you refer to, as she is unfortunately dead. Nature's child, however, is still among us. Shall I convey your offer to her?"
"Yes, shall he?" asks Mrs. Chichester.
She casts a teasing glance at her admirer; a little amused light has come into her green-gray eyes.
"I should think you, Randal, would be the fitting person to propose to her, considering how you haunt her footsteps day and night," says a strange voice.
It comes from a tall, gaunt old lady, who, with ringlets flying, advances towards the group. She is a cousin of the late Sir Maurice, and an aunt of Gower's, from whom much is to be expected by the latter at her death. There is therefore, as you see, a cousinship between the Gowers and the Ryltons.
"My dear aunt, is that you?" says Mr. Gower with enthusiasm. "Come and sit here; do, just here beside me!"
He pats the rug on which he is reclining as he speaks, beckoning her warmly to it, knowing as he well does that her bones would break if she tried to bring them to so low a level.
"Thank you, Randal, I prefer a more elevated position," replies she austerely.
"Ah, you would! you would!" says Randal, who really ought to be ashamed of himself. "You were meant for high places."