“Let me see, her ladyship said he was one of the Mowbray Meltons, but he isn’t. He belongs to the poor branch, but I didn’t contradict her ladyship; it makes her angry. He, he, he, he! It’s—its—it’s very fine to be young and good-looking, and—and—damme, Tom, you young dog,” he continued, chuckling, “I can see through your tricks. He’s—he’s—he’s always knocking Tryphie’s ball in amongst the bushes, and then they have to go out of sight to find it.”
The old man chuckled and shook his head till a twinge of the gout made him wince, when he stooped down and had another rub.
“Why—why—why,” he chuckled again directly after, “damme, damme, if young Charley Melton isn’t doing the same. He has knocked Maudey’s ball in amongst the laurels, and—oh—oh—oh—you wicked young rogues—they’re coming to look for it.”
He got up and toddled towards the young couple, patting Maude on the cheek, and giving Charley Melton a poke in the side.
“I—I—I—see through you both,” he said, laughing. “Won’t do—won’t do. Both as transparent as glass, and I can see your hearts playing such a tune.”
He crossed to another garden seat, and sat down, putting his leg up in a comfortable position.
“There,” said Melton, earnestly. “You see we have both in our favour. Your father would not refuse.”
“Pray say no more now,” said the girl, gazing up in his face. “It is so new, it troubles me. Let us go on playing. Tom and Tryphie must be waiting.”
“I think not,” said Melton, with a quiet smile. “Maude, love, to-day I am so happy that it all seems too delightful to be real. Does it seem so to you?”
“I hardly know,” she replied, turning her eyes to his for a few moments, and then lowering them; “but somehow I feel sad with it and as if I were too happy for it to last.”