“I don’t like to be told I have done well for myself. God has given me the love of a good man. If he were not Mr. Vansittart, but Mr. Smith with only a hundred a year, I should be just as happy.”
Vansittart, that moment approaching, overheard the familiar British patronymic. “What are you saying about Mr. Smith?” he said, remembering how two men, one the slain and the other the slayer, had hidden their identity under that name.
“I was only talking of an imaginary Smith,” she answered, her face lighting up as she turned to her lover. “There is no such person.”
“Come and look at the azaleas,” said Vansittart; “they are worth a visit;” and so, after the lover’s fashion, he who had only parted from her at six o’clock took her away to the conservatory at the other end of the room, and absorbed her into a solitude of azaleas and orange trees.
Mr. Sefton in the mean while was talking to Mrs. Vansittart, and not having done over well with his congratulation of the future bride, now occupied himself in congratulating the elder lady upon the advantage of having secured so charming a daughter-in-law.
“I quite agree with you,” replied Mrs. Vansittart. “She is very pretty, and altogether charming. The match is not of my making, but I am pleased to see my son happy, and pleased to welcome so fair a daughter. You talk as if you were an old friend of the family. Have you known Colonel Marchant long?”
“Ever since he came to this neighbourhood, nine years ago. He has been good enough to accept any little shooting I have had to offer—and he and I have seen a good deal of each other. I knew his son before I knew him. Harold Marchant and I were at Trinity together.”
“Harold Marchant is dead, I conclude?”
“That is more than I or any of his friends can tell you. He is one of that numerous family—the lost tribe of society—the men who have dropped through.”
“I don’t quite follow you.”