‘I shall not keep you waiting long,’ said the young man significantly, as Richard walked away.

To do Richard justice, and greatly he needs it, I must make the remark that such had been the intimacy betwixt him and Dorothy, that he might well imagine himself acquainted with all the friends of her house.  But the intimacy had been confined to the children; the heads of the two houses, although good neighbours, had not been drawn towards each other, and their mutual respect had not ripened into friendship.  Hence many of the family and social relations of each were unknown to the other; and indeed both families led such a retired life that the children knew little of their own relatives even, and seldom spoke of any.

Lady Scudamore, the mother of the stranger, was first cousin to lady Vaughan.  They had been very intimate as girls, but had not met for years—­hardly since the former married sir John, the son of one of King James’s carpet-knights.  Hearing of her cousin’s illness, she had come to visit her at last, under the escort of her son.  Taken with his new cousin, the youth had lingered and lingered; and in fact Dorothy had been unable to get rid of him before an hour strange for leave-taking in such a quiet and yet hospitable neighbourhood.

Richard took his stand on the side of the public road opposite the gate; but just ere Scudamore came, which was hardly a minute after, a cloud crept over the moon, and, as he happened to stand in a line with the bole of a tree, Scudamore did not catch sight of him.  When he turned to walk along the road, Richard thought he avoided him, and, making a great stride or two after him, called aloud—­

’Stop, sir, stop.  You forget your appointments over easily, I think.’

‘Oh, you are there!’ said the youth, turning.

‘I am glad you acknowledge my presence,’ said Richard, not the better pleased with his new acquaintance that his speech and behaviour had an easy tone of superiority, which, if indefinably felt by the home-bred lad, was not therefore to be willingly accorded.  His easy carriage, his light step, his still shoulders and lithe spine, indicated both birth and training.

‘Just the night for a serenade,’ he went on, heedless of Richard’s remark, ‘—­bright, but not too bright; cloudy, but not too cloudy.’

‘Sir!’ said Richard, amazed at his coolness.

‘Oh, you want to quarrel with me!’ returned the youth.  ’But it takes two to fight as well as to kiss, and I will not make one to-night.  I know who you are well enough, and have no quarrel with you, except indeed it be true—­as indeed it must, for Dorothy tells me so—­that you have turned roundhead as well as your father.’

‘What right have you to speak so familiarly of mistress Dorothy?’ said Richard.

‘It occurs to me,’ replied Scudamore, airily, ’that I had better ask you by what right you haunt her house at midnight.  But I would not willingly cross you in cold blood.  I wish you good a night, and better luck next time you go courting.’