th a contemptuous twist of his mustaches.
"I fear, however fete you may be in every other quarter, the seasons
won't change to accommodate you."

"Oh! you are a dreadful man," drawled Cos. "You don't a bit mind tanning
yourself, nor getting drenched through, nor soiling your hands----"

"Thank Heaven, no!" responded Syd. "I'm neither a school-girl, nor--a
fop."

"Would you believe it, Miss St. Aubyn?" said the baronet, appealingly.
"That man'll get up before daylight and let himself be drenched to the
skin for the chance of playing a pike; and will turn out of a
comfortable arm-chair on a winter's night just to go after poachers and
knock a couple of men over, and think it the primest fun in life. I
don't understand it myself, do you?"

"Yes," said Cecil, fervently. "I delight in a man's love for sport, for
I idolise horses, and there is nothing that can beat a canter on a fine
fresh morning over a grass country; and I believe that a man who has the
strength, and nerve, and energy to go thoroughly into fishing, or
shooting, or whatever it be, will carry the same will and warmth into
the rest of his life; and the hand that is strong in the field and firm
in righteous wrath, will be the truer in friendship and the gentler in
pity."

Cecil spoke with energetic enthusiasm. Horace stared, the Screechington
sneered, Laura gave an affected little laugh. The Colonel swung round
from his study of the fire, his face lighting up. I've seen Syd on
occasion look as soft as a woman. However, he said nothing; he only took
her in to luncheon, and was exceedingly kind to her and oblivious of
Laura Caldecott's existence throughout that meal, which, at Deerhurst,
was of unusual splendor and duration. And afterwards, when she had
arrayed herself in a hat with soft curling feathers, and looped up her
dress in some inexplicable manner that showed her dainty high heels
artistically, he took her little skates in his hand and walked down by
her side to the pond. It was some way to the pond--a good sized piece of
water, that snobs would have called the Lake, by way of dignifying their
possessions, with willows on its banks (where in summer the sentimental
Screechington would have reclined, Tennyson _a la main_), and boats and
punts beside it, among which was a tub, in which Blanche confessed to me
she had paddled herself across to the saturation of a darling blue
muslin, and the agonised feelings of her governess, only twelve months
before