As they were breaking up the group, Captain Baskelett appeared.
“Ah! Nevil,” said he, passed him, saluted Miss Halkett through the window, then cordially squeezed his cousin’s hand. “Having a holiday out of Bevisham? The baron expects to meet you at Mount Laurels to-morrow. He particularly wishes me to ask you whether you think all is fair in war.”
“I don’t,” said Nevil.
“Not? The canvass goes on swimmingly?”
“Ask Palmet.”
“Palmet gives you two-thirds of the borough. The poor old Tory tortoise is nowhere. They’ve been writing about you, Nevil.”
“They have. And if there’s a man of honour in the party I shall hold him responsible for it.”
“I allude to an article in the Bevisham Liberal paper; a magnificent eulogy, upon my honour. I give you my word, I have rarely read an article so eloquent. And what is the Conservative misdemeanour which the man of honour in the party is to pay for?”
“I’ll talk to you about it by-and-by,” said Nevil.
He seemed to Cecilia too trusting, too simple, considering his cousin’s undisguised tone of banter. Yet she could not put him on his guard. She would have had Mr. Culbrett do so. She walked on the terrace with him near upon sunset, and said, “The position Captain Beauchamp is in here is most unfair to him.”