“But can ye no’ find out, John?”
“Aye—her aunt might tell me!” So saying, he turned and went his thoughtful way, leaving Sir Hector staring after him in deepest perplexity.
Her Grace the Duchess of Connington was seated in her little garden busily shelling peas.
“Ah, and is it you—at last, sir?” quoth she, acknowledging Sir John’s profound obeisance with a smiling nod. “Pray, why ha’ you been so long a-calling?”
“I awaited vainly your niece’s invitation, madam, and am here to-day unbidden.”
“Then you may sit here beside me, sir.... I ha’ been hither dragged into these solitudes by my headstrong Herminia and, on the whole, should like it vastly well were it not for the giant.”
“Giant, madam?”
“Aye, Blunderbore himself, sir! A fierce, fearsome, great creature in shabbiest clothes and matted wig! An odious, huge person who persistently peers and prys upon me—over the wall yonder. So slinking and sly! A contemptible creeper! And puffs tobacco from a pipe!”
“Nay, madam, can you possibly mean my very dear friend, Sir Hector MacLean, a most honourable, worthy gentleman?”
“Then why should the person persistently pry and peer on our privacy, pray?”