‘It is not an uncommon name where my family lived,’ said the Major. ‘I should like to see him if he is a namesake. He may have heard of the person I am in search of.’
The whole party was extremely sorry to permit their guests to depart; but after a few days spent in luxurious intercourse, during which sight-seeing and sport were organised day by day, and every imaginable book and author reviewed with Mr. Kinghart in the evening, while Guy had fully made up his mind to go to India, and had got up Indian history from the Mogul dynasty to the execution of Omichund, a parting had to be made. It was only temporary, however, as Mr. Kinghart had promised to visit an old schoolfellow long settled at Monaro, and after a fortnight’s stay had promised to return this way with the Major before they said farewell finally. At Warbrok Chase there was great dismay at the inevitable separation.
‘I declare,’ said Annabel, ‘that I begin to doubt whether it is prudent to make such delightful acquaintances. One is so dreadfully grieved when they depart. It is much better to have everyday friends, who can’t run away, isn’t it?’
‘And who mightn’t be much missed if they did; quite so, Miss Annabel,’ said Forbes, to whom this lament was made.
‘Oh, of course you are different at Benmohr and just about here. We are all one family, and should be a very united one if Mr. Churbett would leave off teasing me about what silly people say, and Mr. Forbes would give up his sarcasms, Mr. Hamilton his logic, Mr. Argyll his tempers, and so on. How I could improve you all, to be sure! But I mean friends—that is, strangers—like Mr. Kinghart and Major Glendinning, that are birds of passage. I can’t explain myself; but I’m sure there’s something true and new about the idea.’
‘It may be quite true that young ladies prefer recently acquired friends to those of long standing, but I am afraid it is not altogether new in the history of the sex,’ said Mr. Forbes. ‘Still I think I understand you, Miss Annabel. Which of the illustrious strangers do you chiefly honour with your regrets, Miss Beatrice?’
‘I mourn over Mr. Kinghart,’ said Beatrice, with instinctive defensive art. ‘He is a library that can talk, and yet, like a library, prefers silence. I wonder if one would ever get tired of listening to him, and having everything so delightfully explained. He is sarcastic about women, too. Perhaps he has been ill-treated by some thoughtless girl. I should like to wither her.’
‘Why don’t you comfort him, Beatrice? Your love for reading would just suit, or perhaps not suit,’ said Annabel. ‘You would have to toss up which was to order dinner or make tea. I can see you both sitting in easy-chairs, with your foreheads wrinkled up, reading away the whole evening. I wonder if two poets or two authors ever agreed in married life? Of course, he might scratch out her adjectives, or she might sneer at his comic element. But, do you know, a thought strikes me. Don’t you see a likeness to some one in the Major that you’ve seen before? I do, and it haunts me.’
‘No, I never saw any one the least like him; his expression, his figure, his way of walking, riding, and talking are quite different from other people. How a man’s life moulds him! I am sure I could tell what half the men I see have been or not been, quite easily, by their appearance and ways.’
‘But did you notice his eyes?’