the present—unless, of course, the trustees find me out, and turn me off."
"But your family—your friends! They won't know what has become of you!"
"That won't worry 'em. I've done it before."
"Kept a gate?" she exclaimed.
"No, not that. Just disappeared for a week or two. I don't know how it is, but I get devilish bored with watching turnips grow, and doing the civil to the neighbours," he said apologetically.
She sighed. "How fortunate you are to be able to escape! I wish I were a man!"
He looked at her very kindly. "Do you want to escape?"
"Yes—no! I could not leave my grandfather. He is almost helpless, and very old."
"Have you lived here all your life?"
"Very nearly. My father died when I was a child, and we came to live with Grandpapa then. When I was sixteen, my mother died. Then Jermyn went to the wars, and was killed." She paused, and added, in a lighter tone: "But that is all a long time ago now. Don't imagine that poor Grandpapa has kept me here against my will! Far from it! Nothing would do for him but to launch me into society—though I warned him what would come of it!"
"What did come of it?" John enquired.
She made her mouth prim, but her eyes were laughing. "I did not take!" she said solemnly. "Now, don't, I beg of you, play the innocent and ask me how that can have come about! You must see precisely how it came about! I am by far too large. Grandpapa compelled my Aunt Sophia to house me for a whole season, and even to present me at a Drawing-room. When she saw me in a hoop, we were obliged to revive her with hartshorn and burnt feathers. I cannot love her, but indeed I pitied her! She can never have enjoyed a season less. It was so mortifying for her! I had no notion how to behave, and when she took me to Almack's not all her endeavours could obtain partners for me. I don't know which of us was the more thankful when my visit ended."
"I expect I must have been in Spain," he said thoughtfully. "I never went to Almack's till after I had sold out, and my sister dragged me there. To own the truth, I found it devilish dull, and there wasn't a woman there, beside my sister, whose head reached my shoulder. It made me feel dashed conspicuous. If you had been there, and we had stood up together, it would have been a different matter."
"Alas, I'm more at home in the saddle than the ballroom!"
"Are you? So am I! But my sister can keep it up all night."
"Is your sister married?"
"Yes, she married George Lichfield, a very good fellow," he replied.
"I think I met him once—but I might be mistaken. It is seven years since my London season. Do you feel that Lady Lichfield would approve of your present occupation?"
"Oh, no, not a bit!" he said. "She and George don't approve of any of the things I do. I shan't tell her anything about it."
"I think I am a little sorry for her. And still I don't understand why you mean to remain here!"
"No," he said, "I don't suppose you do. I didn't mean to, last night, but something happened today which made me change my mind."
"Good gracious! What in the world was it?"
"I can't tell you that now. I will, one day."
"No, that's too provoking!" she protested. "Is it about Brean? Have you discovered something?"
"No, nothing. It wasn't that," John replied.
"Then what, pray——"
"I must own I should be glad if I could discover what has happened to the fellow," he remarked, as though she had not spoken. "If he had met with an accident, one would think there would have been news of it by now. He must be pretty well known in the district, isn't he?"
She nodded. "Yes, certainly. He is red-haired, too, which makes him easily recognisable. You don't think, I collect, that he can have gone off, perhaps to Sheffield, and drunk himself into a stupor?"
"I did think so," he admitted, "but Ben assures me his dad don't go on the mop. He is quite positive about it, and I imagine he must know. According to his story, Brean went out on Friday evening, saying that he would be
"But your family—your friends! They won't know what has become of you!"
"That won't worry 'em. I've done it before."
"Kept a gate?" she exclaimed.
"No, not that. Just disappeared for a week or two. I don't know how it is, but I get devilish bored with watching turnips grow, and doing the civil to the neighbours," he said apologetically.
She sighed. "How fortunate you are to be able to escape! I wish I were a man!"
He looked at her very kindly. "Do you want to escape?"
"Yes—no! I could not leave my grandfather. He is almost helpless, and very old."
"Have you lived here all your life?"
"Very nearly. My father died when I was a child, and we came to live with Grandpapa then. When I was sixteen, my mother died. Then Jermyn went to the wars, and was killed." She paused, and added, in a lighter tone: "But that is all a long time ago now. Don't imagine that poor Grandpapa has kept me here against my will! Far from it! Nothing would do for him but to launch me into society—though I warned him what would come of it!"
"What did come of it?" John enquired.
She made her mouth prim, but her eyes were laughing. "I did not take!" she said solemnly. "Now, don't, I beg of you, play the innocent and ask me how that can have come about! You must see precisely how it came about! I am by far too large. Grandpapa compelled my Aunt Sophia to house me for a whole season, and even to present me at a Drawing-room. When she saw me in a hoop, we were obliged to revive her with hartshorn and burnt feathers. I cannot love her, but indeed I pitied her! She can never have enjoyed a season less. It was so mortifying for her! I had no notion how to behave, and when she took me to Almack's not all her endeavours could obtain partners for me. I don't know which of us was the more thankful when my visit ended."
"I expect I must have been in Spain," he said thoughtfully. "I never went to Almack's till after I had sold out, and my sister dragged me there. To own the truth, I found it devilish dull, and there wasn't a woman there, beside my sister, whose head reached my shoulder. It made me feel dashed conspicuous. If you had been there, and we had stood up together, it would have been a different matter."
"Alas, I'm more at home in the saddle than the ballroom!"
"Are you? So am I! But my sister can keep it up all night."
"Is your sister married?"
"Yes, she married George Lichfield, a very good fellow," he replied.
"I think I met him once—but I might be mistaken. It is seven years since my London season. Do you feel that Lady Lichfield would approve of your present occupation?"
"Oh, no, not a bit!" he said. "She and George don't approve of any of the things I do. I shan't tell her anything about it."
"I think I am a little sorry for her. And still I don't understand why you mean to remain here!"
"No," he said, "I don't suppose you do. I didn't mean to, last night, but something happened today which made me change my mind."
"Good gracious! What in the world was it?"
"I can't tell you that now. I will, one day."
"No, that's too provoking!" she protested. "Is it about Brean? Have you discovered something?"
"No, nothing. It wasn't that," John replied.
"Then what, pray——"
"I must own I should be glad if I could discover what has happened to the fellow," he remarked, as though she had not spoken. "If he had met with an accident, one would think there would have been news of it by now. He must be pretty well known in the district, isn't he?"
She nodded. "Yes, certainly. He is red-haired, too, which makes him easily recognisable. You don't think, I collect, that he can have gone off, perhaps to Sheffield, and drunk himself into a stupor?"
"I did think so," he admitted, "but Ben assures me his dad don't go on the mop. He is quite positive about it, and I imagine he must know. According to his story, Brean went out on Friday evening, saying that he would be
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