“Poor little soul!” said Mr. Pomfret, in a voice of the deepest sympathy. “Poor little soul!” he repeated.
“Well, we talked for some little time, some ten minutes perhaps, I don’t think it could have been much longer. And then—then—you will never believe it, Jack—she asked me to call, and be introduced to her brother.”
Mr. Pomfret was quite young, in fact he was the baby of the regiment. But having been educated at a public school, he had learned a certain amount of worldly wisdom rather early. He gave expression to it now.
“If she were living with her mother, or a maiden aunt, Hughie, the thing would be so easy. But the brother, we have seen him walking beside that lovely girl. It would be difficult to class him. It would be perhaps too much to say he was either a bounder or a cad—he’s not boisterous enough for the one or common enough for the other. But clearly, he’s not a gentleman or the imitation of one.”
“No,” answered Hugh. “Your description of the brother quite fits. He is neither fish, flesh, fowl, nor good red-herring, as the old saw has it. Then the girl is so different. She is, to an extent, frank and unconventional.”
“She must be, or she wouldn’t have asked you to call upon her,” interrupted the astute Mr. Pomfret.
“Quite so, I perfectly agree. But upon my soul, Jack, she has the most perfect manners. She does these sort of things in such a way that you cease to wonder why she does them.”
“I understand.” Mr. Pomfret looked very wise. “There’s a wonderful fascination about the girl. She radiates it, even when you pass her in the street. By Gad, there’s not a young woman in Blankfield who can hold a candle to her. Well, Hughie, what are you going to do about the invitation?”
“I’m in two minds, old man, to go or stay away. There’s the brother, you see.”
“There’s the brother,” repeated Mr. Pomfret, “and a dashed disappointing sort of a brother, too. If it had only been a mother, or a maiden aunt! What a priceless opportunity! And yet it seems a bit too good to be lost.”
“But the brother, what about him?” Hugh insisted.
“The brother is, of course, a stumbling-block. You can’t ask him to Mess. ‘Old Fireworks’ will stand more from you than anybody, but he would never stand Burton. He would be calling him ‘Your Grace’ or ‘Your Worship’ or something.”
“Old Fireworks,” it may be explained, was the nickname of the respected Colonel of the gallant Twenty-fifth Lancers. It had been conferred upon him, on account of his explosive temper. He was also a rigid disciplinarian.
“I shall not go,” said Hugh after a brief pause.
Mr. Pomfret was thinking deeply. He pulled at his big cigar in a meditative fashion. Then at length, out of his wisdom, he spoke:
“Let us reason this out, my well-beloved friend. A very pretty girl asks you to go and see her, she is unfortunately hampered by an undesirable brother. You accept their hospitality, but you know he is not a man you can ask to Mess. But you can take him to an hotel, and feed him up there. Tell him the Colonel’s kicked up rough about guests, any lie you like, to save his amour propre.”
“A good idea, Jack. Have you anything more to say? Don’t forget that if I go to Rosemount, the news will be all over Blankfield in five minutes.”
Mr. Pomfret snapped his fingers. “Who cares a fig for the Blankfield people? Everybody knows, or ought to know, that a soldier loves and rides away. And the Blankfield girls are dull enough, Heaven knows, I wouldn’t give a thought to them.”
“Then you advise me to call, and be introduced to the brother, eh?”
“Of course. We shall be off in another two months, and leave only tender memories behind us.” Mr. Pomfret was a practical person, if ever there was one. “Let us seize the passing day. By the way, have you any objection to taking me up to call with you, when you go? Say no, if you have the slightest objection.”
Hugh Murchison looked at him squarely. “No, old chap, not the slightest. The girl interests me in a way, chiefly, I think, because I can’t quite make her out, can’t determine whether she is very cunning or very simple, but I am not attracted in the ordinary sense. I take it you are.”
Pomfret’s look of indifference changed to one of gravity. “Yes, Hughie, I am. I would like to see that girl at close quarters.”
Hugh rose. “Right. We will call together, and in the meantime we will keep it from the other fellows?”
“Good Heavens, I should think so. We should be chaffed to death,” was Jack’s fervent answer.
A few days later, the two young men walked to Rosemount. It was a villa sort of house, set in a small garden, very carefully kept. The windows were ornamented with boxes of flowers. Small as the establishment was, there was an air of elegance about it, an elegance perhaps of restricted means but of refined taste.
Pomfret nudged his senior officer. “I say, they’ve turned it into a very decent sort of little crib, haven’t they? I should say that is due to the girl.”
Hugh laughed. “Perhaps it is the brother after all. He might be an artist, you know. Artists are often very rum-looking chaps.”
“Artist be hanged,” said Pomfret emphatically. “I’ll bet you a fiver he isn’t an artist, whatever he is. A ‘bookie’ or a ‘bookie’s’ tout, more likely.”
At the end of this short colloquy, they had reached the hall door. A very smart maidservant, in a becoming cap and apron, opened it. In answer to their inquiry, Miss Burton was in.
They were shown into the drawing-room. The young mistress of the house was reclining in an easy-chair; an open book lay on her lap.
She advanced towards them with that peculiar air of self-possession which had so impressed Hugh on his first meeting in the tea-shop. A hostess with years of social experience could not have been more at her ease than this young girl.
“How nice of you to come, after that very vague invitation,” she said, in her clear, silvery voice.
She addressed Murchison first, and then turned swiftly to Pomfret, in whose eyes she doubtless recognised frank admiration of her peculiar attractiveness.
“I know your friend is going to introduce you in proper form. But it is really quite unnecessary. I know you are Mr. Pomfret. I have learned the names of all the officers from the tradespeople, also, my only friends in Blankfield. Perhaps Captain Murchison has told you what I confided to him the other day, that we are as isolated here as if we were on a desert island.”
Mr. Pomfret sat down beside her on a small Chesterfield. From his vantage point he could gaze into the beautiful eyes, he could note the lustre of that fair, wavy hair.
“A beastly shame,” growled the young subaltern, at a loss for appropriate words to express the enormities of Blankfield Society.
She turned away lightly, as if the subject interested her no further.
“I think we will have tea. My brother is engaged in scientific pursuits. When he can tear himself away, he will join us. Captain Murchison, will you kindly ring the bell?”
Truly, she had the manners of a woman of the world. She took the homage of the two men as an accomplished fact. The villadom of Blankfield could not produce such a hostess, so free from fussiness or exaggerated hospitality. You would have to go to the “county” to find her parallel. The two men exchanged appreciative glances. Whatever her origin, Miss Burton could shine in any circle in which she found herself permanently, or temporarily, located.
The tea was served, and over the tea-cups they chatted in desultory