Charley and the captain had gone off exploring the wonders and antiquities of Chester. Edith and Sir Victor were nobody knew where. Lady Helena had a visitor, and was shut up with her. Trix had nothing but her novel, and what were all the novels in Mudie's library to her this bitter day?
The long, red spears of the sunset were piercing the green depths of fern and brake, when the two young men rode home. A servant waylaid Mr. Stuart and delivered his sister's message. She wanted to see him at once on important business.
"Important business!" murmured Charley, opening his eyes.
But he went promptly without waiting to change his dress.
"How do, Trix?" he said, sauntering in. "Captain Hammond's compliments, and how's the ankle?"
He threw himself—no, Charley never threw himself—he slowly extended his five-feet-eleven of manhood on a sofa, and awaited his sister's reply.
"Oh, the ankle's just the same—getting better, I suppose," Trix answered, rather crossly. "I didn't send for you to talk about my ankle. Much you, or Captain Hammond, or any one else cares whether I have an ankle at all or not."
"My dear Trix, a young lady's ankle is always a matter of profound interest and admiration to every well-regulated masculine mind."
"Bah! Charley, you'll never guess what I have to tell!"
"My child, I don't intend to try. I have been sight-seeing all the afternoon, interviewing cathedrals, and walls, and rows, and places, until I give you my word you might knock me down with a feather. If you have anything preying on your mind—and I see you have—out with it. Suspense is painful."