“Dear me!” said the young man. “I’m very sorry for that.”
“He says—William Jones says—you’re come here prying and spying. Do you?”
“My dear Matt,” replied the young man lightly, “I come here as a humble artist, seeking subjects for my surpassing genius to work upon. If it is prying and spying to attempt to penetrate into the beauties of nature—both scenic, animal, and human—I fear I must plead guilty; but otherwise——”
She interrupted him with an impatient exclamation, accompanied by a hitch of her pretty shoulders.
“Don’t talk like that; for then I know you’re chaffing. Talk serious, and I’ll tell you something.”
“All right. I’ll be serious as a parson. Go ahead!”
“Mr. Monk of Monkshurst wants to marry me. He said so to William Jones.”
The information was delivered with assumed carelessness; but after it was given, Matt watched the effect of it upon the hearer with precocious interest. Brinkley opened his eyes in very natural amazement.
“Come, come, Matt; you’re joking.”
“No, I ain’t. It’s true.”