They were alone, but not unwatched.
Skulking behind them, with gun in hand, and spaniel at his heels, went young Scudamore. He did not attempt to overtake, but only watched them through the wood and along the park path, till they had joined a group of returned ladies, who chanced to be strolling through the lawn.
Chapter Forty Seven.
Just Fifteen.
It was the birthday of Blanche Vernon. Partly in view of its celebration had Sir George called the shooting party together.
The morning had passed in the usual manner—shooting through the covers. In the evening there was to be a grand dinner—and after it a dance.
The evening hour had come; and the baronet’s daughter was in her bedroom, attended by Sabina, who had just finished dressing her for dinner.
But during the time of her toilet she had been occupied in the perusal of a newspaper, that seemed greatly to interest her. Every now and then an exclamation escaped her lips, indicative of joy, until at length the journal dropped out of her hands; and she remained musing—as if in some thoughtful reverie. It ended in her making the remark: “I fancy I’m in love.”