“Let me hear them!”
“Well, in the first place, I was with Blanche in the covers, the day before yesterday. It was when we all went pheasant-shooting. We separated; she going home, and I to continue the sport. I had got out of sight, as he supposed, when this Mr Maynard popped out from behind a holly copse, and joined her. I’m positive he was there waiting for the opportunity. He gave up his shooting, and accompanied her home; talking all the way, with as much familiarity as if he had been her brother?”
“He has the right, Frank Scudamore. He saved my child’s life.”
“But that don’t give him the right to say the things he said to her.”
Sir George started.
“What things?”
“Well, a good many. I don’t mean in the covers. What passed between them there, of course, I couldn’t hear. I was too far off. It was last night, while they were dancing, I heard them.”
“And what did you hear?”
“They were talking about this new book Mr Maynard has written. My cousin said she was so anxious to read it she would not be able to sleep that night. In reply, he expressed a hope she would feel the same way the night after reading it. Uncle, is that the sort of speech for a stranger to address to Blanche, or for her to listen to?”
The question was superfluous; and Scudamore saw it, by the abrupt manner in which the spectacles were jerked from Sir George’s nose.