Thus the prospect of a day at Gordon's shooting-box, sure of good shooting and a pleasant time generally, startled him a little out of his usual calm, and three o'clock found him at the door of Gordon's modest office. Gordon came forward to meet him, his face troubled, a telegram in his hand.
"Confound it, Harry," he cried, as he shook hands, "I'm afraid I've done an awfully stupid thing. About a month ago I got a letter from an old lady up country, one of my mother's oldest friends,—awfully good to me when I was a boy, and all that—saying that she and her daughter were going to run down here for a little trip some time this month. Of course I wrote back, as in duty bound, and told her that I should be out at the shooting-box then, and that she must surely let me entertain her there. I never gave the matter a second thought, and here I've just got a telegram—delayed, of course,—saying they're due in town about half-past two, and will come right over to the office. I suppose they'll be here any minute. I'm infernally sorry. I never meant to let you in for anything like this."
Palmer made a not over successful attempt to conceal his disappointment. "Well, never mind, Gordon," he said reluctantly. "Can't be helped, of course. Better luck another time."
Gordon crumpled the telegram in his hand, and threw it into the waste-basket. "Confound it all!" he cried; "I wouldn't care so much if it wasn't right in the middle of the flight, but this is the very top of the season for redheads and widgeon. The wind's been fresh to the westward all day, too, and now it's just starting to haul out to the north. If it holds there, I'll bet we could kill twenty-five to-night, and God knows how many to-morrow morning at daylight. I don't want you to do anything you don't want to, Harry, but I wish you'd come along just the same. You needn't see anything of them, and, anyway, they're not a half bad sort. The little girl gave promise of being quite a good looker the last time I saw her, three or four years back. I really think you'd better come along just the same, and not mind them at all."
Palmer looked uncomfortable. "Oh, thanks, no," he said, somewhat hastily. "Country cousins, you know, and all that. Not much in my line, I'm afraid."
Gordon laughed. "Well, I don't blame you," he said, "only I feel ashamed of myself to have mixed things up so. I can't help the—"
A knock on the door interrupted him, and the office boy appeared. "Two ladies to see you, Mr. Gordon," he announced, and close upon his heels an elderly lady, clad in sober black, came bustling into the room. Her plain, spectacled face fairly beamed with pleasure as she advanced toward Gordon, both hands outstretched in greeting.
"Well, Dick, my dear boy," she exclaimed, "I am glad to see you again. And how well you're looking."
Gordon took her outstretched hands, and shook them cordially. "The same to you, Aunt Dora," he cried; "I declare you've positively grown younger. And where's Marian?"
Mrs. Francis turned toward the door. "Why, she's here," she answered, "I expect I got ahead of her, I was so anxious to set eyes on you again. Here she is now."