"Who's Jack?" he demanded.
"Jack's—well, Jack. He is the son of the rector. I knew him in London. He's on long leave. Jack!" she called.
Jack found a gap in the hedge—the Squire's hedges had many gaps—and came towards them. Derwent saw that he was good-looking, tall, young, and carried himself with the easy air of a military man. He hated him. It was a new experience; he had never hated men before—he had only disliked them.
"Ah, Daphne!" cried Jack; "I hardly hoped to see you."
"This is Mr. Derwent—Mr. De Courcy. I knew you were coming down yesterday. Your father told me." She poured out her words in excited gasps. To Derwent it seemed that she ignored him, and he did not like it.
"You are in the army?" he asked curtly of the young man named Jack.
"Yes, the 10th Lancers. I was too much of a muff for anything else. I can ride a bit, I am fairly well made," he looked down at his length of limb complacently, "and—and I don't think I should funk."
"No man knows until he has been tried."
"I suppose so."
The two left Derwent somewhat unceremoniously. From that he gathered that Daphne merely looked upon him as her uncle's friend. No man likes to awake suddenly and find that he has become middle-aged. He may be fond of joking about it, but that is because he believes he is far from its border. When the knowledge comes to him suddenly, and, above all, through a woman who has found favour in his eyes, it is bitter.