"She must be, or she wouldn't have asked you to call upon her," interrupted the astute Mr. Pomfret.
"Quite so, I perfectly agree. But upon my soul, Jack, she has the most perfect manners. She does these sort of things in such a way that you cease to wonder why she does them."
"I understand." Mr. Pomfret looked very wise. "There's a wonderful fascination about the girl. She radiates it, even when you pass her in the street. By Gad, there's not a young woman in Blankfield who can hold a candle to her. Well, Hughie, what are you going to do about the invitation?"
"I'm in two minds, old man, to go or stay away. There's the brother, you see."
"There's the brother," repeated Mr. Pomfret, "and a dashed disappointing sort of a brother, too. If it had only been a mother, or a maiden aunt! what a priceless opportunity! And yet it seems a bit too good to be lost."
"But the brother, what about him?" Hugh insisted.
"The brother is, of course, a stumbling-block. You can't ask him to Mess. 'Old Fireworks' will stand more from you than anybody, but he would never stand Burton. He would be calling him 'Your Grace' or 'Your worship' or something."
"Old Fireworks," it may be explained, was the nickname of the respected Colonel of the gallant Twenty-fifth Lancers. It had been conferred upon him, on account of his explosive temper. He was also a rigid disciplinarian.
"I shall not go," said Hugh after a brief pause.
Mr. Pomfret was thinking deeply. He pulled at his big cigar in a meditative fashion. Then at length, out of his wisdom, he spoke: