"Oh, no—no—that is, yes."
The colonel looked puzzled. He was not a conjurer, and so might look puzzled, if he looked like any ordinary man, who hears any one say no, and yes in the same breath, without any injury to his reputation.
"Mr. Ben," said Sir Richard Blunt, "I have something for your private ear, if you will just step on with me."
"My private ear?" said Ben with a confused look, as if he would have liked to add, "which is that?"
"Yes. This way if you please."
Ben walked on with the magistrate, and Colonel Jeffery was alone with Arabella Wilmot. Yes, alone with the one person who insensibly had crept into her affections. Alas! Is the pure love of that young creature scattered to the winds? Is she one of those who drag about them in this world the heavy chain of unrequited affection? We shall see. Arabella had permitted the colonel to hand her to one of the garden-seats near at hand. How could she prevent him? If he had chosen instead to hand her into the river it would have been just the same, and she would have gone. He led her by that wreath of flowers which in old Arcadia was first linked by Cupid, and which, in all time since, has wound itself around the hearts of all the boy-god's victims.
"Miss Wilmot," said the colonel, and now his voice faltered a little, "I have much wished to see you."
"Very fine, indeed," said Arabella. "You said something about the weather, did you not?"
"Not exactly," he said; "I had much wished to see you."
"Me?"