Giles was a splendid figure of a man, and looked a picture in his trim riding-dress. The old dame had an eye for a fine man, and cast an approving glance at his shapely legs and slim figure. But she frowned when her eyes rose to his face. It was thinner than she liked to see; there was not the old brave light in his eyes, and his fair moustache had lost the jaunty curl, which, to her romantic mind, had made him such a gallant lover.
Giles was one of the few persons Mrs. Parry did not abuse, for his good looks and many courtesies had long since won her foolish old heart, although she would never confess to it. But then, Mrs. Parry was softer than she looked.
"Who had been taking the heart out of you, Ware?" she asked in her gentlemanly way, which Giles knew and had often laughed at.
"No one," he answered gloomily, "unless you call Fate some one."
"I call Anne Denham some one," she replied coolly, "so you haven't found her yet, poor soul!"
"No; I have looked everywhere. She has vanished like a bubble."
"It is just as well. You couldn't possibly marry her and bring her back to Rickwell as your wife."
"Why not? She is innocent. You said yourself that she was."
"And I believe it. I have stood up for her all through. All the same, Ware, there would be a scandal if she came back as Mrs. Ware."
"I don't care two straws for that," said Giles, flinging back his head.