But Cyril Mowbray did not find him very discouraging as he sat with him on this evening after dinner, for the dinner had been an excellent one and his cigars were unexceptional. They were in their easy-chairs in front of a French window, the leaves of which were open. The square of the window enclosed as in a frame an exquisite picture of the dim garden. The sound of cawing rooks in the distant elms was borne through the tranquil air. The scents of the earliest roses stole within the room at mysterious intervals. It was a perfect summer's night, and Cyril felt that though there were troubles in the world, yet on the whole it was a very pleasant place to live in.
There had been a pause in the conversation, which had related mainly to a very pretty young girl named Lizzie Dangan, the daughter of the head gamekeeper at Westwood Court--the man who had touched his hat as the dog-cart drove through the entrance gates. The silence was suddenly broken by Cyril's exclaiming:
“You are a first-rate chap, Dick. Why shouldn't you marry Agnes?”
Dick's eyes flashed upon him for a moment, and it seemed to Cyril that he detected a certain curious drawing in of his breath that sounded like the stifling of a sigh. The exclamation which came from him immediately afterwards seemed incongruous--it was an exclamation that suggested the putting aside of an absurdity.
“Oh, you may say 'psha!' as often as you please,” said Cyril; “it will not alter the fact that Agnes and you would get on very well together. I know that she thinks a lot of you--so do I.”
“That's very kind of you,” said Dick. “But you're talking nonsense--worse than nonsense. Agnes has given her promise to marry my brother Claude. Let us say no more about it.”
“It's all very well for you to say, 'We'll say no more about it,”' cried Cyril, with an air of responsibility--the responsibility of a brother who refuses to allow the affections of his sister to be trifled with. “It's all very well for you to say that; but when I think how long this sort of shilly-shallying has been going on--well, it makes me wild. Agnes is now over thirty--think of that--over thirty, and what's more, she's not getting any younger. I'm anxious to see her settled. I think I've a right to ask if she's engaged to marry Claude. Where's Claude now? Does any sane person believe that he is still in the land of the living?”