I fancied he was a pretentious sort of bumpkin, who talked of
things a little out of his reach,--such as yachting,--steeple-chasing,
and the like. Is n't he the son of some poor dependant of the
governor's?"

"Nothing of the kind; his mother is a widow, with very narrow means, I
believe; but his father was a colonel, and a distinguished one. As to
dependence, there is no such relation between us."

"I am glad of that, for I rather set him down last night"

"Set him down! What do you mean?"

"He was talking somewhat big of 'cross-country riding, and I asked him
about his stable, and if his cattle ran more on bone than blood."

"Oh, Mark, you did not do that?" cried Bella, anxiously.

"Yes; and when I saw his confusion, I said, 'You must let me walk over
some morning, and have a look at your nags; for I know from the way you
speak of horseflesh I shall see something spicy.'"

"And what answer did he make?" asked Bella, with an eager look.

"He got very red, crimson, indeed, and stammered out, 'You may spare
yourself the walk, sir; for the only quadruped I have is a spaniel, and
she is blind from age, and stupid.'"

"Who was the snob there, Mark?" said Mrs. Trafford, angrily.

"Alice!" said he, raising his eyebrows, and looking at her with a cold
astonishment.

"I beg pardon in all humility, Mark," said she, hastily. "I am very
sorry to have offended you; but I forgot myself. I fancied you had been
unjust to one we all value very highly, and my tongue outran me."

"These sort of fellows," continued he, as if unheeding her excuses,
"only get a footing in houses where there are no men, or at least none
of their own age; and thus they are deemed Admirable Crichtons because
they can row, or swim, or kill a salmon. Now, when a gentleman does
these things, and fifty more of the same sort, nobody knows it. You'll
see in a day or two here a friend of mine, a certain Norman Maitland,
that will beat your young savage at everything,--ride, row, walk, shoot
or single-stick him for whatever he pleases; and yet I 'll wager you 'll
never know from Maitland's manner or conversation that he ever took the
lock of a canal in a leap, or shot a jaguar single-handed."

"Is your phoenix really coming here?" asked Mrs. Trafford, only too glad
to get another channel for the conversation.

"Yes; here is what he writes;" and he took a note from his pocket.
"'I forget, my dear Lyle, whether your chateau be beside the lakes of
Killarn