The next moment he was on his way to the croquet lawn, where a gaily dressed party was engaged in preparing for a little match.
“I never expected it,” said the young man to himself; “and either I’m in luck’s way, or her ladyship is not the mercenary creature people say. She is evidently agreeable, and if she is, I have no fear of Lord Barmouth, for the old man likes me.”
“Come, old fellow,” cried Tom, advancing to meet him, with the biggest croquet mallet over his shoulder that could be found in the trade. “What have you and the old lady been chatting over? She hasn’t been dropping any hints about being de trop?”
Melton was silent, for he enjoyed the other’s interest.
“If she has,” cried Tom, “I’ll strike: I won’t stand it. It’s too bad;—it’s—”
“Gently, gently,” said Melton, smiling. “She has been all that I could desire, and it is evident that she does not look upon my pretensions to your sister’s hand with disfavour.”
“What—disfavour? Do you mean to say in plain English that the old girl has not cut up rough about your spooning after Maude?”
“Is that plain English?”
“Never mind. Go on. What did she say?”
“Called me her dear boy, and said her sole wish was to see her child happy.”