“But, my dear sir, that conveys nothing to me,” said the Squire.
“Old Ridgeway was a solicitor in some Midland town, I believe, and a slippery scoundrel too. He settled here some time ago, but he has been dead twenty years or more. His daughter, Miss Ridgeway, lives in the same house still, and her sister was married to the present Vicar of Crishowell, near Llangarth. That is all I can tell you about them.”
“Indeed,” said the Squire, “I did not know that, though I know Lewis of Crishowell very well.”
“She is a good creature, Miss Ridgeway, and does a great deal among the poor. The niece seems more likely to do a great deal among the rich, if one may judge by her looks. They are not quite the sort of people one would have met here when I was young.”
“You are right—quite right,” said Mr. Fenton. And the two old gentlemen sighed over the falling away of their times as their fathers and grandfathers had done before them.
Meantime the valse had come to an end, and Isoline and Harry went towards the coolness of the entrance. “Sitting out,” for more than a very few minutes, was not countenanced then as it is now, and they stood together in the passage looking into the empty street.
“I shall be very sorry when to-night is over,” said he presently.
“So shall I,” she replied demurely. “I enjoy balls more than anything in the world. I wonder when I shall go to another.”
“Surely you will go to the Hunt Ball? It will be in less than a week.”