“Chillingly!” echoed Leopold Travers from
behind. “Are you the son of my old friend
Sir Peter?”
Thus discovered and environed, Kenelm did not lose
his wonted presence of mind; he turned round to Leopold
Travers, who was now close in his rear, and whispered,
“If my father was your friend, do not disgrace
his son. Do not say I am a failure. Deviate
from your system, and let Will Somers succeed Mrs.
Bawtrey.” Then reverting his face to Mr.
Belvoir, he said tranquilly, “Yes; we have met
before.”
“Cecilia,” said Travers, now interposing,
“I am happy to introduce to you as Mr. Chillingly,
not only the son of an old friend of mine, not only
the knight-errant of whose gallant conduct on behalf
of your protegee Jessie Wiles we have heard so much,
but the eloquent arguer who has conquered my better
judgment in a matter on which I thought myself infallible.
Tell Mr. Lethbridge that I accept Will Somers as a
tenant for Mrs. Bawtrey’s premises.”
Kenelm grasped the Squire’s hand cordially.
“May it be in my power to do a kind thing to
you, in spite of any system to the contrary!”
“Mr. Chillingly, give your arm to my daughter.
You will not now object to join the dancers?”
CECILIA stole a shy glance at Kenelm as the two emerged
from the fernery into the open space of the lawn.
His countenance pleased her. She thought she
discovered much latent gentleness under the cold and
mournful gravity of its expression; and, attributing
the silence he maintained to some painful sense of
an awkward position in the abrupt betrayal of his
incognito, sought with womanly tact to dispel his
supposed embarrassment.
“You have chosen a delightful mode of seeing
the country this lovely summer weather, Mr. Chillingly.
I believe such pedestrian exercises are very common
with university students during the long vacation.”
“Very common, though they generally wander in
packs like wild dogs or Australian dingoes.
It is only a tame dog that one finds on the road travelling
by himself; and then, unless he behaves very quietly,
it is ten to one that he is stoned as a mad dog.”
“But I am afraid, from what I hear, that you
have not been travelling very quietly.”
“You are quite right, Miss Travers, and I am
a sad dog if not a mad one. But pardon me:
we are nearing the marquee; the band is striking up,
and, alas! I am not a dancing dog.”
He released Cecilia’s arm, and bowed.
“Let us sit here a while, then,” said
she, motioning to a garden-bench. “I have
no engagement for the next dance, and, as I am a little
tired, I shall be glad of a reprieve.”
Kenelm sighed, and, with the air of a martyr stretching
himself on the rack, took his place beside the fairest
girl in the county.
“You were at college with Mr. Belvoir?”
“I was.”
“He was thought clever there?”
