"It's in bits," explained Cannington, "and he wishes to cart the several parts to some peaceful part of the country where the putting together won't be overlooked. What about Burwain?"
"Oh, you know it, Cannington. It's a dull little village between Gattlingsands and Tarhaven. Weston will find all the quiet he wants there. I suppose, like all inventors, he fears lest his especial secret for flying should be discovered."
"Something like that. And yet he told me heaps about his airship. It seems to be a clever sort of business, although it has a gas bag. I believe in the heavier-than-air business myself."
"What the dickens do you mean?"
"Aeroplanes, you know!" and Cannington entered into a long disquisition on the difference between navigable balloons and those machines which strive to fly, birdlike, by power of wing alone. In the middle of his lecture--which I confess bored me--the footman entered to announce that we were wanted in the drawing-room. Thither we repaired, and were welcomed by Mabel, Lady Denham, and by a dark, untidy little man, in whom I recognized Dick Weston.
Lady Denham was a stout, fair-haired, phlegmatic-looking person, who never troubled herself about anyone if she could help it. Therefore she allowed her niece to pour out the tea, and allowed Cannington and myself to hand round the bread and butter, which latter business, of course, was right enough. She aroused herself so far as to say that I was looking well, and reminded her of my poor dear mother. After that she relapsed into meditation, and devoted herself to making a regular substantial meal. There was nothing fairylike about Lady Denham.
Weston was quiet also, and sat near Mabel, haunched up in his chair like a little gnome, but with eyes full of intelligence. He was not handsome, and being devoted to science--I suppose one would call airships science, although I can't be sure--his manner was preoccupied and dry. I wondered that a lively girl like Mabel could love such an uninteresting personage, but she did. I saw the flash of her eyes when they rested on his uncomely face and figure. But Weston was a decent little fellow, in spite of his exterior, and there was something in his dark face which always attracted animals and children. Nevertheless Lady Mabel, handsome, titled, and lively, seemed to be the last person to make him a desirable wife. I managed to get her into a corner after we had eaten and drunk sufficient. "Mabel, tell me, which one of your suitors do you intend to take?"
"I can't say," she whispered back, and her lively face grew sad. "Of course I have known Dicky all my life, and he's a dear. But Mr. Marr is really a charming man. He will be here soon, and then you can judge for yourself."
"Marry Dicky, Mabel. I'm sure you love him," I advised.
"Yes, I do, and I really believe that he loves me. But I can't accept him unless he proposes. He's always in the clouds. Just look at him talking airships to Cannington instead of amiable nonsense to me."