Thinking of this, and subsiding into dozing, sat the major. The hum of the insects sounded in his ears, the scent of the rich flowering hawthorn was heavy in the air. Though not yet summer by the calendar, for May was still reigning, the season was unusually premature, and the weather was, to all intents and purposes, that of summer. Bees were sipping at the honey-blossoms, butterflies fluttered from flower to flower. All nature seemed conducive to repose, and—the major was soon fast asleep, and choking as though he were being strangled.
"You are wanted, if you please, sir."
The words aroused him. Opening his eyes, and sitting upright in his chair, he saw his butler by his side.
"What do you say, Lamb? Wanted? Who is it?"
"Sir Philip Stane, sir. He is in the drawing-room."
The major took a draught of his champagne-cup, standing on the table by his side. Which cup, it must be confessed, was much more innocent than its name would imply. A quart or two of it would not have hurt any one: and the major was always thirsty. Crossing the lawn, he went into the drawing-room. Sir Philip Stane, a little man with a white shirt-frill, a cold face, and a remarkably composed manner, rose at his entrance. Major Raynor shook hands with him in his hearty way, and they sat down together.
For some few minutes the conversation turned on general topics; but soon the knight gave the major to understand that he had come to speak upon a particular subject: the attachment of his son to Miss Raynor.
"It has for some time been observable that they are thinking of one another," remarked he.
"Well, yes, I suppose it has," said the major. "We have noticed it here."
"William is getting on fairly well; he calculates that he will make at least seven-hundred pounds this year. Quite enough, he thinks, to begin housekeeping upon, with help. With help, major."