What a jumble of incongruities it was! Long stories about the weather, and the garden, and the farm, and all sorts of things which no one knew better than I did had no interest for my correspondent whatever. I remarked, however, throughout the whole composition, that "mamma's" sentiments and regulations were treated with an unusual degree of contempt, and the writer's own opinions asserted with a boldness and freedom I had never before observed in my strait-laced, hypocritical cousin. Mr. Haycock's name, too, was very frequently brought on the _tapis_: he seemed to have breakfasted with them, lunched with them, walked, driven, played billiards with them, and, in short, to have taken up his residence almost entirely at Dangerfield. The postscript explained it all, and the postscript I give verbatim as I read it aloud to Cousin John whilst we were whizzing along at the rate of forty miles an hour.
"_P.S._--I am sure my dear Kate will give me joy. You cannot have forgotten a _certain_ person calling this autumn at Dangerfield for a _certain_ purpose, in which he did not seem clearly to know his own mind. Everything is now explained. My dear Herod (is it not a pretty Christian name!)--my dear Herod is all that I can wish, and assures me that all along _it_ was intended for me. The _happy day_ is not yet fixed; but my dearest Kate may rest assured that I will not fail to give her the _earliest intelligence_ on the _first opportunity_. Tell Mr. Jones I shall be married before him, after all."
The last sentence escaped my lips without my meaning it. Had I not come upon it unexpectedly, I think I should have kept it to myself. John blushed, and looked hurt. For a few minutes there was a disagreeable silence, which we both felt awkward. He was the first to break it.
"Kate," said he, "do you think I shall be married before Miss Horsingham?"
"How can I tell?" I replied, looking steadfastly out of the window, whilst my colour rose and my heart beat rapidly.
"Do you believe that Welsh story, Kate?" proceeded my cousin.
I knew by his voice it _couldn't_ be true; I _felt_ it was a slander; and I whispered, "No."
"One more question, Kate," urged Cousin John, in a thick, low voice. "Why did you refuse Frank Lovell?"