“She does, Jem,” cried Sir John hastily. “Everybody said so to-night. I should have liked that little lassie, Lucy Alleyne, to have been asked to be a bridesmaid though; but after what has passed it was as well not.”
“Yes,” said the major gruffly, “just as well not.”
“Pretty girl that Marjorie Emlin. Best looking bridesmaid we shall have.”
“Humph! yes. Can’t say I like her, Jack.”
“Prejudiced? old man.”
“Perhaps so; but those white-faced red-haired girls always have a foxey look to me. There, there, I’ve done, and I’ll play cavalier to her to-morrow if I get the chance.”
“That you will, Jem, I know. Trust you soldiers for that. Sad dogs. Why, Jem, old chap, I never said anything to you before,” chuckled Sir John, “but ’pon my soul, I thought once you were going to make play and get married before Glynne.”
The major moved uneasily in his chair, and suppressed a sigh.
“Nice little girl, Jem,” continued Sir John. “I liked her myself; but only a woman. There were rumours about her. You didn’t hear, I suppose?”
“Yes, I did,” said the major, biting hard at his cigar.