"Thank you, Madre. One compliment from you is worth a dozen from any one else," says Cyril. "Any news, Guy? You seem absorbed. I cannot tell you how I admire any one who takes an undisguised interest in his correspondence. Now I"—gazing at his five unopened letters—"cannot get up the feeling to save my life. Guy,"—reproachfully—"don't you see your mother is dying of curiosity?"
"The letter is from Trant," says Guy, looking up from the closely written sheet before him. "He wants to know if we will take a tenant for 'The Cottage.' 'A lady'"—reading from the letter—"'who has suffered much, and who wishes for quietness and retirement from the world.'"
"I should recommend a convent under the circumstances," says Cyril. "It would be the very thing for her. I don't see why she should come down here to suffer, and put us all in the dumps, and fill our woods with her sighs and moans."
"Is she young?" asks Lady Chetwoode, anxiously.
"No—I don't know, I'm sure. I should think not, by Trant's way of mentioning her. 'An old friend,' he says, though, of course, that might mean anything."
"Married?"
"Yes. A widow."
"Dear me!" says Lady Chetwoode, distastefully. "A most objectionable class of people. Always in the way, and—er—very designing, and that."
"If she is anything under forty she will want to marry Guy directly," Cyril puts in, with an air of conviction. "If I were you, Guy, I should pause and consider before I introduced such a dangerous ingredient so near home. Just fancy, mother, seeing Guy married to a woman probably older than you!"
"Yes—I shouldn't wonder," says Lady Chetwoode, nervously. "My dear child, do nothing in a hurry. Tell Colonel Trant you—you—do not care about letting The Cottage just at present."
"Nonsense, mother! How can you be so absurd? Don't you think I may be considered proof against designing widows at twenty-nine? Never mind Cyril's talk. I dare say he is afraid for himself. Indeed, the one thing that makes me hesitate about obliging Trant is the knowledge of how utterly incapable my poor brother is of taking care of himself."
"It is only too true," says Cyril, resignedly. "I feel sure if the widow is flouted by you she will revenge herself by marrying me. Guy, as you are strong, be merciful."
"After all, the poor creature may be quite old, and we are frightening ourselves unnecessarily," says Lady Chetwoode, in all sincerity.
At this both Guy and Cyril laugh in spite of themselves.
"Are you really afraid, mother?" asks Cyril, fondly. "What a goose you are about your 'boys'! Are we always to be children in your eyes? Not that I wonder at your horror of widows. Even the immortal Weller shared your sentiments, and warned his 'Samivel' against them. Never mind, mother; console yourself. I for one swear by all that is lovely never to seek this particular 'widder' in marriage."
False oath.
"You see he seems to take it so much for granted, my giving The Cottage and that, I hardly like to refuse."
"It would not be of the least consequence, if it was not situated actually in our own woods, and not two miles from the house. There lies the chief objection," says Lady Chetwoode.
"Yes. Yet what can I do? It is a pretty little place, and it seems a pity to let it sink into decay. This tenant may save it."
"It is a lovely spot. I often fancy, Guy," says his mother, somewhat sadly, "I should like to go and live there myself when you get a wife."
"Why should you say that?" says Guy, almost roughly. "If my taking a wife necessitates your quitting Chetwoode, I shall never burden myself with that luxury."
"You don't follow out the Mater's argument, dear boy," says Cyril, smoothly. "She means that when your sylvan widow claims you as her own she must leave, as of course the same roof could not cover both. But you are eating nothing, mother; Guy's foolish letter has taken away your appetite. Take some of this broiled ham!"
"No, thank you, dear, I don't care for——"
"Don't perjure yourself. You know you have had a positive passion for broiled ham from your cradle up. I remember all about it. I insist on your eating your breakfast, or you will have that beastly headache back again."
"My dear," says his mother, entreatingly, "do you think you could be silent for a few minutes while I discuss this subject with your brother?"
"I shan't speak again. After that severe snubbing consider me dumb. But do get it over quick," says Cyril. "I can't be mute forever."
"I suppose I had better say yes," says Guy, doubtfully. "It looks rather like the dog in the manger, having The Cottage idle and still refusing Trant's friend."
"That reminds me of a capital story," breaks in the irrepressible Cyril, gayly. "By Jove, what a sell it was! One fellow met another fellow——"
"I shall refuse, of course, if you wish it," Guy goes on, addressing his mother, and scorning to notice this brilliant interruption.
"No, no, dear. Write and say you will think about it."
"Won't you listen to my capital story?" asks Cyril, in high disgust. "Very good. You will both be sorry afterward—when it is too late."
Even this awful threat takes no effect.
"Unfortunately, I can't do that," says Guy, answering Lady Chetwoode. "His friend is obliged to leave the place she is now in, immediately, and he wants her to come here next week—next"—glancing at the letter—"Saturday."
"Misfortunes never come single," remarks Cyril; "ours seem to crowd. First a ward, and then a widow, and all in the same week."
"Not only the same week, but the same day," exclaims Lady Chetwoode, looking at her letter; whereupon they all laugh, though they scarcely know why.
"What! Is she too coming on Saturday?" asks Guy. "How ill-timed! I am bound to go to the Bellairs, on that day, whether I like it or not, to dine, and sleep and spend my time generally. The old boy has some young dogs of which he is immensely proud, and has been tormenting me for a month past to go and see them. So yesterday he seized upon me again, and I didn't quite like to refuse, he seemed so bent on getting my opinion of the pups."
"Why not go early, and be back in time for dinner?"
"Can't, unfortunately. There is to be a dinner there in the evening for some cousin who is coming to pay them a visit; and I promised Harry, who doesn't shine in conversation, to stay and make myself agreeable to her. It's a bore rather, as I fear it will look slightly heathenish my not being at the station to meet Miss Chesney."
"Don't put yourself out about that: I'll do all I can to make up for your loss," says Cyril, who is eminently good-natured. "I'll meet her if you wish it, and bring her home."
"Thanks, old man: you're awfully good. It would look inhospitable neither of us being on the spot to bid her welcome. Take the carriage and——"
"Oh, by Jove, I didn't bargain for the carriage. To be smothered alive in July is not a fascinating idea. Don't you think, mother,"—in an insinuating voice—"Miss Chesney would prefer the dogcart or the——"
"My dear Cyril! Of course you must meet her in the carriage," says his mother, in the shocked tone that usually ends all disputes.
"So be it. I give in. Though when I arrive here in the last stage of exhaustion, reclining in Miss Chesney's arms, you will be to blame," says Cyril, amiably. "But to return to your widow, Guy; who is to receive her?"
"I dare say by this time she has learned to take care of herself," laughing. "At all events, she does not weigh upon my conscience, even should I consent to oblige Trant,"—looking at his mother—"by having her at The Cottage as a tenant."
"It looks very suspicious, her being turned