“Glad your meetin' went off well, sir. You scored a triumph I should think.”
“Why?”
“Oh! I don't know. I thought you had a good bit of opposition to contend with.”
Old Heythorp looked at him.
“Your grandmother!” he said; then, with his habitual instinct of attack, added: “You make the most of your opportunities, I see.”
At this rude assault Bob Pillin's red-cheeked face assumed a certain dignity. “I don't know what you mean, sir. Mrs. Larne is very kind to me.”
“No doubt. But don't try to pick the flowers.”
Thoroughly upset, Bob Pillin preserved a dogged silence. This fortnight, since he had first met Phyllis in old Heythorp's hall, had been the most singular of his existence up to now. He would never have believed that a fellow could be so quickly and completely bowled, could succumb without a kick, without even wanting to kick. To one with his philosophy of having a good time and never committing himself too far, it was in the nature of “a fair knock-out,” and yet so pleasurable, except for the wear and tear about one's chances. If only he knew how far the old boy really counted in the matter! To say: “My intentions are strictly honourable” would be old-fashioned; besides—the old fellow might have no right to hear it. They called him Guardy, but without knowing more he did not want to admit the old curmudgeon's right to interfere.
“Are you a relation of theirs, sir?”
Old Heythorp nodded.