"If I meet you," she said, "I will speak to you; but it is, and must be, a mere chance. Follow that corridor, turn to the left, and you will be in the hall. Good-by." She was gone.
"Well, what sort of fellow is this cousin of yours? I suppose you met him last night? I never thought we should tumble into the trammels of polite society when I recommended these shootings to you. I have scarcely seen you the last ten days. What's come to you, lad?"
So growled Moncrief one morning as he smoked the after-breakfast cigar, previous to turning out for a run with the "Friarshire."
"Oh! St. George Wilton is rather an amusing fellow; he is tolerably good-looking, and has lots of small talk; one of those men who do not believe much in anything, I fancy, except self and self-interest, but for dear self-sake not disposed to rub other people the wrong way. He is a favorite with the ladies—cuts me out with the fair Helen."
"Hum! I doubt that. I do not think you would let him if he tried; for of course that's the attraction to Brosedale."
"Is it?" returned Wilton, carelessly, as he prepared a cigar.
"Yes; I know you think I am as blind as a mole, but I can see there is something that takes you to Brosedale. It's not Sir Peter, though he's the best of the lot. It's not my lady; and it cannot be that imp of a boy you are so fond of carrying pictures to—I suppose for a 'ploy to get into the interior, though they are sweet enough upon you without that; so it must be that girl."
"Your reasoning is so admirable," returned Wilton, laughing good-humoredly, "that I should like to hear a little more."
"Eh!" said the major, looking up at him curiously. "Well, my lad, I am only anxious for your own sake. Helen Saville is not the style of woman Lord St. George would like; the family are by no means sans reproche; and—I don't fancy her myself."
"That is conclusive," replied Wilton, gravely. "But make your mind easy; I am not going to marry Helen Saville, nor do I think she expects me to do so."