Angela reflected to herself that she had never yet seen a young gentleman to speak to in her life, and then asked, with undisguised interest, who he was.

“Well, he is a sort of connection of your own, through the Prestons, who are cousins of ours, if any of them are left.  His mother was a Preston, and his name is Arthur Preston Heigham.  George told me something about him just now, and, on thinking it over, I remember the whole story.  He is an orphan, and George’s ward.”

“What is he like?” asked Angela, ingenuously.

“Really I don’t know; rather tall, I think—­a gentlemanly fellow.  It really is a relief to speak to a gentleman again.  There has been a nice disturbance at Isleworth,” and then he told his daughter the history of the great dog fight.

“I should think Mr. Heigham was perfectly in the right, and I should like to see his dog,” was her comment on the occurrence.

As Arthur dressed himself for dinner that evening he came to the conclusion that he disliked his host more than any man he ever saw, and, to say the truth, he descended into the dining-room with considerable misgivings.  Just as he entered, the opposite door opened, and Sir John Bellamy was announced.  On seeing him, George emerged from the sulky silence into which he was plunged, and advanced to meet him.

“Hullo, Bellamy!  I must congratulate you upon your accession to rank.”

“Thank you, Caresfoot, thank you,” replied Mr. Bellamy, who, with the exception that he had grown a size larger, and boasted a bald patch on the top of his head that gave him something of a appearance of a jolly little monk, looked very much the same as when we last saw him as a newly married man.

“A kind Providence,” he went on, rubbing his dry hands, and glancing nervously under the chairs, “has put this honour into my hands.”

“A Providence in petticoats, you mean,” broke in George.

“Possibly, my dear Caresfoot; but I do not see him.  Is it possible that he is lurking yonder, behind the sofa?”

“Who on earth do you mean?”

“I mean that exceedingly fine dog of yours, Snarleyow.  Snarleyow, where are you?  Excuse me for taking precautions, but last time he put his head under my chair and bit me severely, as I dare say you remember.”

Arthur groaned at hearing the subject thus brought forward.

“Mr. Heigham’s dog killed Snarleyow this afternoon,” said George, in a savage voice.

At this intelligence, Sir John’s face became wreathed in smiles.

“I am deeply delighted—­I mean grieved—­to hear it.  Poor Snarleyow! he was a charming dog; and to think that such a fate should have overtaken him, when it was only last week that he did the same kind office for Anne’s spaniel.  Poor Snarleyow! you should really have him stuffed.  But, my dear Caresfoot, you have not yet introduced me to the hero of the evening, Mr. Heigham.  Mr. Heigham, I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” and he shook hands with Arthur with gentle enthusiasm, as though he were the last scion of a race that he had known and loved for generations.