Du Meresq, he said, was suffering intense pain in the head, and a small bone in the ankle was broken, which he had set; but he could not be certain there was no internal injury, etc.

Mrs. Rolleston hastened away to Bertie, and did not return; and poor Cecil, not daring to show her anxiety, remained to entertain her father, or rather to listen to his irritable remarks on this unlucky expedition for the rest of the evening.

Never was there a more fractious patient than Du Meresq as he lay listlessly on the sofa, while the bone reunited.  He had speculated on many a stolen walk with Bluebell in that unfrequented wood, where they would be far less liable to interruption than at “The Maples.”  He thought of his cavalier parting with her,—­a bracing tonic,—­necessitated by the self-betrayal of her dejected air, but which he expected to have explained away in a most agreeable manner before now.  It would never do to write from this house.  What a shame it was sending her away—­for a mistake, too, for they had got the saddle on the wrong horse.  “Still,” he thought, “it is a bore when girls take things au grand serieux.  Lilla Tremaine is quite different, as jolly as possible, but never expects impossibilities.  Now Cecil and Bluebell are never satisfied without one’s swearing one cares for nobody else.  At least, Cecil isn’t, though I don’t think I ever quite said that to her yet.  It doesn’t matter telling Bluebell so, and she looks so pleased, and believes every word of it.  I would marry that child if I could afford it.”  And then visions of debt, ever pressing, harassed his mind.  “Well, it could not last much longer; there would be something left out of the fire when he sold out, and he could try Australia, or the Gold Coast, or—­he didn’t care what.”

But such subjects were not exhilarating, lying alone in the smoking-room, and at last he rang a hand-bell, and told the servant to ask Miss Rolleston to come and sit with him.

Cecil complied at once, but brought with her a colour-box and sketch-book.  Drawing was her great occupation, and she was now filling in from memory a sketch of the toboggining party.

“You never come near me, Cecil, unless I send for you!” said Du Meresq, complainingly.

“Poor Bertie! are you very much bored?” said she, without looking up from her painting.

“Horribly; and my thoughts and occupations are none of the pleasantest.”

“Those horrid duns again,” glancing at some blue looking envelopes lying near.  “But you haven’t opened one of them.”

“Never do, nor answer them either.  They keep up a pretty close correspondence considering it is one-sided.”

“Bertie,” said Cecil, drawing on diligently, “Can’t something be done?  You never seem to look into your affairs.  Perhaps they wouldn’t be so bad if you did.  I shall be of age in August, and,” colouring slightly, “I will lend you as much as you want.  You can give me an I.O.U. for the amount,” continued she, rather proud of her knowledge of business.