"Mr. Graeme!"
"Beg pardon, Miss Caldwell, but never mind him. Come along, we'll be home as soon as they are if we start now."
Lucy hesitated. She wanted to go, and for that very reason, being a woman, pretended she did not. The idea, moreover, though pleasing, was nevertheless in some unaccountable way rather alarming; for though ordinarily a walk home with one of her father's guests, however late the hour, would have caused her no qualms, with Graeme, it was different. She had known him but three weeks, and yet in that short time he had come to occupy a place in her thoughts, and, what was worse, to control her actions in a manner most disquieting to a girl as independent and freedom-loving as Lucy Caldwell. This too in spite of the fact that both her father and uncle, the General, had little liking for Mr. Graeme, and were, she knew, secretly rejoicing in the knowledge that he was leaving Radford Hall next day. Hector also was aware of this, and of the feelings of the rest of the house-party; but, having been accustomed to unpopularity since his childhood, their hostility disturbed him not at all.
"Better come, Miss Caldwell," he urged. "See, they'll be ages before they start. It's my last evening here too; I think you might."
Upon which Lucy decided that her reluctance was both prudish and absurd.
"Very well, Mr. Graeme," she answered; "just wait a minute, though, and I'll ask Mr. Robson to let my father know." This done, the two started on their walk, Lucy setting the pace, which was that of a good four miles an hour.
"Where's Lucy, Tom?" said the General, some ten minutes later, as, the bag having been inspected, the two moved off towards the waiting waggonette.
"She'll be here in a minute; she was down at the other end of the line. The last I saw of her she was helping Graeme to collect his birds. Gad, that fellow can shoot, Charles, quite like one of those fellows you read about in the Badminton Library."
"Yes, and we shall hear all about it to-night too—every blessed shot he made, and why he missed. Conceited, bumptious jackanapes."
"Curious thing old Jack Graeme having a son like that, one of the best, old Jack. Must take after his mother, I suppose, she was a queer wild sort—wrong too."