She pointed to the bole of the huge elm beneath whose boughs they were standing, indicating a little space denuded of the ivy which covered the rest of the trunk, and extended along the four great arms, and up among the smaller branches of the tree.
Mr. Dempster bored his nose into the uncovered bark, studied it from several points of view, bending and curvetting and bridling with as much ado as if he had been an antiquary in presence of a newly-discovered inscription.
'"M C, F H,"' he said at length; 'inside a heart—very pretty and—ah—suggestive; but—commonplace.'
Mr. Dempster's pauses, however arbitrary, were impressive.
'Do you know whose these initials are?' Miss Jane asked.
'I haven't the remotest idea.'
'"M C," Muriel Chartres; "F H," Frank Hay.'
'Ah!'
Dempster leant against an arm of the tree and regarded Miss Jane blankly. He had arrived from Edinburgh that day at her summons, to meet Mr. Chartres, who was expected in the afternoon, and to prosecute his suit for the hand of Muriel. This was a dash of cold water right in his face. He hadn't a word to say, and scarcely any breath to say one.
'You know Mr. Hay,' Miss Jane said. 'You remember, William used to patronise him.'