“I shouldn’t dream, sir, of betraying my uncle’s affairs.  On this occasion—­for an uncle—­he behaved well.  He lectured me for twenty-seven minutes and a half—­I had made up my mind beforehand not to let it go over the half-hour—­and then he came to business.  After a year’s training and probation in Berlin he thought he could get me a post in his brother-in-law’s place in the City.  Awfully warm thing, you know,” said Bobbie, complacently; “worth a little trouble.  So I told him, kindly, I’d think of it.  Ecco!” He pointed to the letter.  “Of course, I told my uncle I should permit him to continue my allowance, and in a year I shall be a merchant prince—­in the egg; I shall be worth marrying; and I shall allow Ettie two hundred a year for her clothes.”

“And Lady Niton?”

Bobbie sat down abruptly; the girl stared at the carpet.

“I don’t see the point of your remark,” said Bobbie at last, with mildness.  “When last I had the honor of hearing of her, Lady Niton was taking the air—­or the waters—­at Strathpeffer.”

“As far as I know,” remarked Sir James, “she is staying with the Feltons, five miles off, at this moment.”

Bobbie whistled.  “Close quarters!” He looked at Miss Ettie Wilson, and she at him.  “May I ask whether, as soon as Ettie and I invited ourselves for the day, you asked Lady Niton to come to tea?”

“Not at all.  I never play Providence unless I’m told to do so.  Only Miss Mallory is coming to tea.”

Bobbie expressed pleasure at the prospect; then his amiable countenance—­the face of an “Idle Apprentice,” whom no god has the heart to punish—­sobered to a real concern as the association of ideas led him to inquire what the latest news might be of Oliver Marsham.

Sir James shook his head; his look clouded.  He understood from Lady Lucy that Oliver was no better; the accounts, in fact, were very bad.

“Did they arrest anybody?” asked Bobbie.

“At Hartingfield?  Yes—­two lads.  But there was not evidence enough to convict.  They were both released, and the village gave them an ovation.”

Bobbie hesitated.

“What do you think was the truth about that article?”

Sir James frowned and rose.

“Miss Wilson, come and see my garden.  If you don’t fall down and worship the peaches on my south wall, I shall not pursue your acquaintance.”

It was a Saturday afternoon.  Briefs were forgotten.  The three strolled down the garden.  Sir James, in a disreputable shooting-coat and cap, his hands deep in his pockets, took the middle of the path—­the two lovers on either side.  Chide made himself delightful to them.  On that Italian journey of which he constantly thought, Ferrier had been amused and cheered all through by Bobbie’s nonsense; and the young fellow had loyally felt his death—­and shown it.  Chide’s friendly eye would be on him and his Ettie henceforward.

* * * * *