“By Jove!”

Dacres puffed on.

“I’m beginning to think,” said Hawbury, “that your first statement is correct.  You are shot, my boy—­hit hard—­and all that; and now I should like to ask you one question.”

“Ask away.”

“What are you going to do about it?  Do you intend to pursue the acquaintance?”

“Of course.  Why not?”

“What do you intend to do next?”

“Next?  Why, call on her, and inquire after her health.”

“Very good.”

“Well, have you any thing to say against that?”

“Certainly not.  Only it surprises me a little.”

“Why?”

“Because I never thought of Scone Dacres as a marrying man, and can’t altogether grapple with the idea.”

“I don’t see why a fellow shouldn’t marry if he wants to,” said Dacres.  “What’s the matter with me that I shouldn’t get married as well as lots of fellows?”

“No reason in the world, my dear boy.  Marry as many wives as you choose.  My remark referred merely to my own idea of you, and not to any thing actually innate in your character.  So don’t get huffy at a fellow.”

Some further conversation followed, and Dacres finally took his departure, full of thoughts about his new acquaintance, and racking his brains to devise some way of securing access to her.

On the following evening he made his appearance once more at Hawbury’s rooms.

“Well, old man, what’s up?  Any thing more about the child-angel?”

“Well, a little.  I’ve found out her name.”

“Ah!  What is it?”

“Fay.  Her name is Minnie Fay.”

“Minnie Fay.  I never heard of the name before.  Who are her people?”

“She is traveling with Lady Dalrymple.”

“The Dowager, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“Who are the other ladies?”

“Well, I don’t exactly remember.”

“Didn’t you find out?”

“Yes; I heard all their names, but I’ve forgotten.  I know one of them is the child-angel’s sister, and the other is her cousin.  The one I saw with her was probably the sister.”

“What, the one named Ethel?”

“Yes.”

“Ethel—­Ethel Fay.  H’m,” said Hawbury, in a tone of disappointment.  “I knew it would be so.  There are so many Ethels about.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, nothing.  I once knew a girl named Ethel, and—­Well, I had a faint idea that it would be odd if this should be the one.  But there’s no such chance.”

“Oh, the name Ethel is common enough.”

“Well, and didn’t you find out any thing about her people?”

“Whose—­Ethel’s?”

“Your child-angel’s people.”

“No.  What do I care about her people?  They might be Jews or Patagonians for all I care.”

“Still I should think your interest in her would make you ask.”

“Oh no; my interest refers to herself, not to her relatives.  Her sister Ethel is certainly a deuced pretty girl, though.”