“Oh, but he’s very nice, and frank, and natural,” said Grey with animation.
“Yes,” said the Resident, “he’s a good fellow. I like Chumbley. But look at the work in that embroidery now – thousands and thousands of stitches. Why what idiots our young fellows are!”
“Why, Mr Harley?” said the girl, wonderingly.
“Why, my child? Because one or the other of them does not make a swoop down and persuade you to let him carry you off.”
“Are you all so tired of me already?” said Grey, smiling.
“Tired of you? Oh, no, little one, but it seems to me that you are such a quiet little mouse that they all forget your very existence.”
“I am happy enough with my father, and very glad to join him once more, Mr Harley.”
“Happy? Of course you are; that seems to be your nature. I never saw a girl so sweet, and happy, and contented.”
“Indeed!” said Grey, blushing. “How can I help being happy when everyone is so kind?”
“Kind? Why, of course. Why, let me see,” said the Resident, “how time goes; what a number of years it seems since I took you to England and played papa to you?”
“Yes, it does seem a long time ago,” said Grey, musingly.
“I never thought that the little girl I petted would ever grow into such a beautiful young lady. Perhaps that is why papa Stuart did not ask me to bring you back.”
“Mr Harley!” exclaimed Grey, and a look of pain crossed her face.
“Why, what have I done?” he said.
“Hurt me,” she said, simply. “I like so to talk to you that it troubles me when you adopt that complimentary style.”
“Then I won’t do it again,” he said, earnestly. “We won’t spoil our old friendship with folly.”
“How well you remember, Mr Harley,” said the girl, smiling again.
“Remember? Of course I do, my dear. Don’t you recollect what jolly feeds of preserved ginger and mango you and I used to have? Ah, it was too bad of you to grow up into a little woman!”
“I don’t think we are any the less good friends, Mr Harley,” said the girl, looking trustingly up in his face.
“Not a bit,” he said. “Do you know, my dear, I think more and more every day that I am going to grow into a staid old bachelor; and if I do I shall have to adopt you as daughter or niece.”
“Indeed, Mr Harley.”
“Yes, indeed, my dear. Nineteen, eh? and I am forty-four. Heigho! how time goes!”
“I had begun to think, Mr Harley – ” said Grey, softly. “May I go on?”
“Go on? Of course, my dear. What had you begun to think?”
“That you would marry Helen.”
“Ye-es, several people thought so on shipboard,” he said, dreamily. “Nineteen – twenty-one – forty-four. I’m getting quite an old man now, my dear. Hah!” he said, starting, “I daresay Mademoiselle Helen will have plenty of offers.”
“Yes,” said Grey; “but she should meet with someone firm and strong as well as kind.”
“Like your humble servant?” he said, smiling.
“Yes,” said Grey, looking ingenuously in his face. “Helen is very sweet and affectionate at heart, only she is so fond of being admired.”
“A weakness she will outgrow,” said the Resident, calmly. “I like to hear you talk like that, Grey. You are not jealous, then, of the court that is paid to her?”
“I, jealous?” said Grey, smiling. “Do I look so?”
“Not at all,” said the Resident; “not at all. Beauty and fortune, they are great attractions for men, my dear, and Helen has both. But, my clever little woman, you ought to teach papa to make a fortune.”
Grey shook her head.
“That’s the thing to do nowadays, like our host has done. Perowne is very rich, and if papa Stuart had done as well, we should be having plenty of offers for that busy little hand. Yes, a score at your feet.”
“Where they would not be wanted,” said the girl, quietly.
“Eh? Not wanted?” said the Resident. “What, would you not like to be worshipped, and hold a court like our fair Helen yonder?”
The girl’s eyes flashed as she glanced in the direction of the ottoman, where Captain Hilton was talking in a low, earnest voice to Helen Perowne; and then, with a slightly-heightened colour, she went on with her work, shaking her head the while.
“I don’t think I shall believe that,” said the Resident, banteringly; but as he spoke she looked up at him so searchingly that even he, the middle-aged man of the world, felt disconcerted, and rather welcomed the coming of the little rosy-faced doctor, who advanced on tiptoe, and with a look of mock horror in his face, as he said, softly:
“Let me come here, my dear. Spread one of your dove-wings over me to ensure peace. Madam is wroth with her slave, and I dare not go near her.”
“Why, what have you been doing now, doctor?” said Grey, with mock severity.
“Heaven knows, my dear. My name is Nor – I mean Henry – but it ought to have been Benjamin, for I have always got a mess on hand, lots of times as big as anyone else’s mess. I’m a miserable man.”
Meanwhile the conversation had been continued between the doctor’s lady and Chumbley, till the former began to fidget about, to the great amusement of the latter, who, knowing the lady’s weakness, lay back with half-closed eyes, watching her uneasy glances as they followed the doctor, till after a chat here and a chat there, he made his way to the couch by Grey Stuart, and began to speak to her, evidently in a most earnest way.
“She’s as jealous as a Turk,” said Chumbley to himself; and he tightened his lips to keep from indulging in a smile.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr Chumbley,” said Mrs Bolter at last.
“No trouble, Mrs Bolter,” he replied, slowly, though his tone indicated that it would be a trouble for him to move.
“Thank you. I’ll bear in mind what you said about Helen Perowne.”
“And that nigger fellow? Ah, do!” said Chumbley, suppressing a yawn.
“Would you mind telling Dr Bolter I want to speak to him for a moment – just a moment?”
“Certainly not,” said Chumbley; and he rose slowly, as if a good deal of caution was required in getting his big body perpendicular; after which he crossed to where the doctor was chatting to Grey Stuart.
“Here, doctor, get up,” he said. “Your colonel says you are to go to her directly. There’s such a row brewing!”
“No, no! Gammon!” said the little man, uneasily. “Mrs Bolter didn’t send you, did she?”
“Yes. Honour bright! and if I were you I’d go at once and throw myself on her mercy. You’ll get off more easily.”
“No, but Chumbley, what is it? ’Pon my word I don’t think I’ve done anything to upset her to-day.”
“I don’t know. There; she’s looking this way! ’Pon my honour, doctor, you’d better go!”
Dr Bolter rose with a sigh, and crossed to his lady, while Chumbley took his place, and threw himself back, laughing softly the while.
“If that was a trick, Mr Chumbley,” said Grey, gazing at him keenly, “it is very cruel of you!”
“But