A hare ran by some dozen yards off: he did not fire.
'I see I am in your way. Good-bye for the present.'
'Good-bye. If you do mean to go up to the Hill Farm, you had better keep to the road. Or else,' he added, laughing, 'Mr. Ferrers will have something to say to you.'
'Well,' said pretty Mary Coventry to herself, as she passed on and into the road, 'he did not even thank me for all my trouble. And I always thought sailors were supposed to be nice. But perhaps he is lamenting some blackamoor sweetheart in Patagonia, and won't take any notice of anybody.'
It was about a week after this that Captain Frank, having run up to town, met a young gentleman in Piccadilly whom he seemed to recognise. He looked again—yes, it could be no other than Tom Beresford. But it was Tom Beresford transformed. Mr. Tom was now of age; he had his club, which he much frequented; he had assumed the air and manner of a man about town. That is to say, although he was clever enough and had a sufficient touch of humour, he cultivated a languid stare, and was chary of speech; and although he was a well-built young fellow, he walked with his elbows out and his knees in, as if the tightness of his trousers and his boots made it nigh impossible for him to walk at all. Moreover, his dress was more rigidly correct than ever; and of course he carried the inevitable cane—inevitable as the walking-stick of the Athenian.
Frank King went up to him eagerly.
'Hallo, Beresford, how are you?'
'How are you?' was the answer, as a slight boyish blush somewhat interfered with the dignity of Mr. Tom. 'How are you? I heard you were at home again. I heard of you through the Strathernes.'
'And I heard of you in the same way,' said Captain King, who seemed greatly pleased to meet an old friend. 'I'll turn and walk with you. I've nothing particular to do.'
'Will you come and lunch with me?' said Mr. Tom (he had recovered himself after the inadvertent blush). 'We can walk along to the club.'