The girl threw him a bright glance.
“No,” said she, mischievously, as she turned and ran away, leaving him more in love with her than ever.
This interview with the girl he loved acted upon Bartlett Bayre as a powerful stimulant, and under its influence he decided not to delay one moment, but to go once more up to the château and to see his uncle again.
In the apologetic mood in which he now found himself, he felt, without much reason, perhaps, that he would find admission easier than before. He was not, however, called upon to make the attempt, for on entering the avenue which led to the great house, he came face to face with his uncle, wrapped to the chin in a stout ulster, taking a brisk constitutional up and down under the bare trees.
“Oh, it’s you again, is it?” said old Mr Bayre, without removing his old pipe from his mouth.
“Yes, sir, I’ve come to apologise.”
“Good Heavens! that’s news indeed!”
“And I’ve come to warn you that you are putting confidence in certain people who don’t deserve it,” went on the young man, taking no notice of his uncle’s sneer.
The old man looked him full in the eyes.
“Whom do you mean?” said he.