"Well, old man, what's up? Any thing more about the child-angel?"
"Well, a little. I've found out her name."
"Ah! What is it?"
"Fay. Her name is Minnie Fay."
"Minnie Fay. I never heard of the name before. Who are her people?"
"She is traveling with Lady Dalrymple."
"The Dowager, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"Who are the other ladies?"
"Well, I don't exactly remember."
"Didn't you find out?"
"Yes; I heard all their names, but I've forgotten. I know one of them is the child-angel's sister, and the other is her cousin. The one I saw with her was probably the sister."
"What, the one named Ethel?"
"Yes."
"Ethel—Ethel Fay. H'm," said Hawbury, in a tone of disappointment. "I knew it would be so. There are so many Ethels about."
"What's that?"
"Oh, nothing. I once knew a girl named Ethel, and—Well, I had a faint idea that it would be odd if this should be the one. But there's no such chance."
"Oh, the name Ethel is common enough."
"Well, and didn't you find out any thing about her people?"
"Whose—Ethel's?"
"Your child-angel's people."
"No. What do I care about her people? They might be Jews or Patagonians for all I care."
"Still I should think your interest in her would make you ask."
"Oh no; my interest refers to herself, not to her relatives. Her sister Ethel is certainly a deuced pretty girl, though."
"Sconey, my boy, I'm afraid you're getting demoralized. Why, I remember the time when you regarded the whole female race with a lofty scorn and a profound indifference that was a perpetual rebuke to more inflammable natures. But now what a change! Here you are, with a finely developed eye for female beauty, actually reveling in dreams of child-angels and their sisters. By Jove!"
"Nonsense," said Dacres.
"Well, drive on, and tell all about it. You've seen her, of course?"
"Oh yes."
"Did you call?"
"Yes; she was not at home. I went away with a snubbed and subdued feeling, and rode along near the Villa Reale, when suddenly I met the carriage with Lady Dalrymple and the child-angel. She knew me at once, and gave a little start. Then she looked awfully embarrassed. Then she turned to Lady Dalrymple; and by the time I had got up the carriage had stopped, and the ladies both looked at me and bowed. I went up, and they both held out their hands. Lady Dalrymple then made some remarks expressive of gratitude, while the child-angel sat and fastened her wonderful eyes on me, and threw at me such a pleading, touching, entreating, piteous, grateful, beseeching look, that I fairly collapsed.
"When Lady Dalrymple stopped, she turned to her and said:
"'And oh, aunty darling, did you ever hear of any thing like it? It was so brave. Wasn't it an awfully plucky thing to do, now? And I was really inside the crater! I'm sure I never could have done such a thing—no, not even for my own papa! Oh, how I do wish I could do something to show how awfully grateful I am! And, aunty darling, I do wish you'd tell me what to do.'
"All this quite turned my head, and I couldn't say any thing; but sat on my saddle, devouring the little thing with my eyes, and drinking in the wonderful look which she threw at me. At last the carriage started, and the ladies, with a pleasant smile, drove on. I think I stood still there for about five minutes, until I was nearly run down by one of those beastly Neapolitan calèches loaded with twenty or thirty natives."
"See here, old man, what a confoundedly good memory you have! You remember no end of a lot of things, and give all her speeches verbatim. What a capital newspaper reporter you'd make!"
"Oh, it's only her words, you know. She quickens my memory, and makes a different man of me."
"By Jove!"
"Yes, old chap, a different man altogether."
"So I say, by Jove! Head turned, eyes distorted, heart generally upset, circulation brought up to fever point, peace of mind gone, and a general mania in the place of the old self-reliance and content."
"Not content, old boy; I never had much of that."
"Well, we won't argue, will we? But as to the child-angel—what next? You'll call again?"
"Of course."
"When?"
"To-morrow."
"Strike while the iron is hot, hey? Well, old man, I'll stand by you. Still I wish you could find out who her people are, just to satisfy a legitimate curiosity."
"Well, I don't know the Fays, but Lady Dalrymple is her aunt; and I know, too, that she is a niece of Sir Gilbert Biggs."
"What!" cried Hawbury, starting. "Who? Sir what?"
"Sir Gilbert Biggs."
"Sir Gilbert Biggs?"
"Yes."
"Sir Gilbert Biggs! By Jove! Are you sure you are right? Come, now. Isn't there some mistake?"
"Not a bit of a mistake; she's a niece of Sir Gilbert. I remember that, because the name is a familiar one."
"Familiar!" repeated Hawbury; "I should think so. By Jove!"
Hawbury here relapsed into silence, and sat with a frown on his face, and a puzzled expression. At times he would mutter such words as, "Deuced odd!" "Confounded queer!" "What a lot!" "By Jove!" while Dacres looked at him in some surprise.
"Look here, old fellow!" said he at last. "Will you have the kindness to inform me what there is in the little fact I just mentioned to upset a man of your size, age, fighting weight, and general coolness of blood?"
"Well, there is a deuced odd coincidence about it, that's all."
"Coincidence with what?"
"Well, I'll tell some other time. It's a sore subject, old fellow. Another time, my boy. I'll only mention now that it's the cause of my present absence from England. There's a bother that I don't care to encounter, and Sir Gilbert Biggs's nieces are at the bottom of it."
"You don't mean this one, I hope?" cried Dacres, in some alarm.
"Heaven forbid! By Jove! No. I hope not."
"No, I hope not, by Jove!" echoed the other.
"Well, old man," said Hawbury, after a fit of silence, "I suppose you'll push matters on now, hard and fast, and launch yourself into matrimony?"
"Well—I—suppose—so," said Dacres, hesitatingly.
"You suppose so. Of course you will. Don't I know you, old chap? Impetuous, tenacious of purpose, iron will, one idea, and all that sort of thing. Of course you will; and you'll be married in a month."
"Well," said Dacres, in the same hesitating way, "not so soon as that, I'm afraid."
"Why not?"
"Why, I have to get the lady first."
"The lady; oh, she seems to be willing enough, judging from your description. Her pleading look at you. Why, man, there was love at first sight. Then tumbling down the crater of a volcano, and getting fished out. Why, man, what woman could resist a claim like that, especially when it is enforced by a man like Scone Dacres? And, by Jove! Sconey, allow me to inform you that I've always