They had been laughing and talking amicably—certainly more like friends, it would seem, than lovers, as gossip averred them to be; and with aching heart, and eager and admiring eyes, poor Jerry Wilmot—poor in more ways than one, for he was a ruined man now—observed the air and bearing of the handsome girl, in her dark blue riding habit—a costume so fitted for the display of every womanly grace—while from her slender waist she moved with every movement of her horse, the very action of which seemed to assert that he was proud of having such a rider.
Still more was Jerry 'cut up' and then perplexed when, soon after, he met Mr. Chevenix, who, with a twinkle in his eye—whether of pride or mischief the said Jerry failed to detect—informed him, somewhat unnecessarily as he thought, that Lord Twiseldown had proposed to Bella.
'Proposed!' repeated Jerry, in a rather breathless voice.
'Yes.'
'And when does the—the marriage come off?'
'It won't come off at all.'
'Why?'
'She has refused him.'
'Refused him!'
'Yes; odd, isn't it? Can't make Bella out at all,' replied Mr. Chevenix, as he nodded, smiled, and trotted away on his cob.