'With pleasure—delighted—charmed to be introduced to Lady Puddicombe,' said Sir Harry, with a swift glance at his friend Poole.
'Sharp eight, then. I daresay our chef will not fail us.'
'All right.'
'Good-morning,' and away he went.
The friends looked at each other, each with an eye half closed, and then laughed heartily.
'I'll have him down at the Hall for the cub-hunting,' said Sir Harry, 'and have other sport than that. She'll soon get tired of her fogie—is bound to do so. What young girl could tolerate such an old pump, and why shouldn't I go in and win at a canter?'
'Hawke Holcroft knew her people, didn't he?'
'Yes—before he came a cropper altogether. When last I heard of him he was actually a visitor at their place, Aberfeldie, wherever that may be.'
Eveline heard with total indifference that they were to have guests that evening, and with all his admiration of her Sir Paget thought,
'What a fool I was to marry her, knowing or suspecting what I did—that she loved that fellow—loved him first (me she never loved at all) and last, and loves him now, no doubt. They say no woman ever forgets her first love, simply because he was her first. Pleasant for me!'