On the day following his daughter’s birthday, Sir George did not accompany his guests to the field. He excused himself, on the plea that diplomatic business required him to confine himself to his library. He was sincere; for such was in reality the case.
His daughter also stayed at home. As expected, the new novel had come down—an uncut copy, fresh from the hands of the binder.
Blanche had seized upon it; and gaily bidding every one goodbye, had hurried off to her own apartment, to remain immured for the day!
With joy Maynard saw this, as he sallied forth along with the shooting party. Scudamore, staying at home, beheld it with bitter chagrin.
Each had his own thoughts, as to the effect the perusal of the book might produce.
It was near mid-day, and the diplomatic baronet was seated in his library, preparing to answer a despatch freshly received from the Foreign Office, when he was somewhat abruptly intruded upon. His nephew was the intruder.
Intimate as though he were a son, and some day to be his son-in-law, young Scudamore required to make no excuse for the intrusion.
“What is it, Frank?” was the inquiry of the diplomatist, holding the despatch to one side.
“It’s about Blanche,” bluntly commenced the nephew.
“Blanche! what about her?”