"Yes; she has been more than a month at Davyntry. Her brother is with her, and a remarkably nice fellow he is. I see a good deal of him."
"I don't remember him. I don't think I ever saw him," said Margaret absently. "What is his name?"
James Dugdale did not note the question, but replied to the first part of the sentence.
"I don't think you can have seen him. He was abroad for some years after his sister's marriage; indeed, he never was here in Sir Richard's lifetime--never saw him, I believe, until he and Lady Davyntry went to Scotland, on a visit, and he died there."
"Is he here now?" Margaret asked in an indifferent manner.
"Yes," returned James; "I told you so. He comes to Chayleigh a good deal. He is nearly as fond of natural history as your father, and nearly as fond of drawing as I am; so we are a mutual resource--Chayleigh and Davyntry I mean."
"And his name?" again asked Margaret quietly.
"Did I not tell you? Don't you remember it? Surely you must have heard the name; it is not a common one--Fitzwilliam Meriton Baldwin."
"No, it is not common, and rather nice. I never heard it before, that I remember. We have arrived, I see; and there is Rose Moore looking out for me, like an impulsive Irish girl as she is, instead of preserving the decorous indifference of the truly British domestic. You will let me know when my father arrives. No, I shall not go to Chayleigh again until his return. Good-night, Mr. Dugdale."
She had disappeared, followed by her attendant, whose frank handsome face had candidly expressed an amount of disapprobation of James Dugdale's personal appearance to which he was, fortunately, perfectly accustomed and philosophically indifferent. Fate had done its worst for him in that respect long before; and he had turned away from the inn-door, and was walking rapidly down the road again, when a cheery voice addressed him: