While at the same time Ludovic Leslie, leaving Margaret, upon whom the stranger had already fixed a very decided gaze, went forward, saying,
“Aubrey Bellingham—how do you do? My sister told us she expected you to-day.”
“Yes,” said the young man, “here I am. I came up as soon as I got her summons. It is a fine thing to have nothing to do, for then one is always at the call of one’s friends. May I be presented to—Miss Leslie? whom I have heard of so often. As I am about to enter her service, don’t you think I should know her at once when good-fortune throws me in her way?”
“Only Miss Margaret Leslie, Bellingham. You understand, Margaret, that this is Jean’s nephew, whom she was speaking of this morning. I don’t know what he means by entering your service, but perhaps he can explain that himself.”
The stranger gave Margaret a very keen look of examination—not the chance glance of an ordinary meeting, nor yet the complimentary surprise of sudden admiration of a pretty face. The look meant a great deal more than this, and might have confused Margaret if she had not been far beyond noticing anything of the kind. He seemed to look, try, judge all in a moment, and the keen, sudden inspection struck Sir Ludovic, though he was not very swift to mark such undercurrents of meaning. It seemed to take a long time, so searching and thorough was it; and yet almost before Ludovic’s voice had ceased to vibrate, Bellingham replied,
“I believe I am to be the courier of the party, which is the same as entering Miss Leslie’s service. My aunts are used to me. Miss Leslie, it is a very quaint relationship this of yours to my aunts. I call both your sisters by that endearing title.”
“I hope you don’t mean to make my little sister into Aunt Margaret,” said Sir Ludovic. “Perhaps, my dear, you had better go and tell Jean of Mr. Bellingham’s arrival. I don’t know what you will think,” he added, escaping with some relief, as Margaret hurried away, into the more habitual current of his thoughts, “of my tumble-down old house.”
“It is a most curious old house,” said the stranger; “I can see that already. I have been studying it all the time; fifteenth century, do you suppose? Domestic architecture is always a little bewildering. I know there are people who can read it like a church, but I don’t pretend to be clever about it. It always puzzles me.”
“No doubt it is puzzling, when you know only a little about it,” said Ludovic, who knew nothing at all.
“That is just my case,” said the other, cheerfully. “I have been taught just a little of most things. It is very unsatisfactory. Indeed, to have the reputation of a handy man in a large family party is ruin to everything. You can neither work nor study: and when you are cursed, in addition, with a little good-nature—”