CHAPTER XIV.

THE LOVERS' SEAT.

THE postscript of Lucy's letter seemed to Richard worth all the rest of it, and amply to atone for its bad spelling. He had hitherto looked forward to the picnic at Swanborough as likely to be 'good fun,' but it now presented quite different features to his imagination. Who has not pictured in his mind a promised meeting of this tender kind; mapped out the very spot of the interview; enjoyed beforehand, yet without discounting, its delights; and in the meantime somewhat neglected his business? Our young friend had no business to attend to; he was one of those favourites of fortune whom it is the fashion

with philosophers to pity so much while wishing they were in their shoes, who have no business to neglect: but from that moment he neglected his pleasures. It was fortunate that the theatricals were over, or he would certainly have come under the censure of the stage manager for blunders and inattention. He helped Miss Meredith to chicken at luncheon before Mr. Pole, and even gave her the liver wing, which was the old gentleman's acknowledged property and perquisite.

The rich trail of the woodcocks, the green fat of the turtles, the backbones of the grouse, were always respectfully preserved for this fine old epicure. On one occasion, during the last winter, Dick had given his host the choice of a tit-bit among good things, instead of sending him the tit-bit itself. A landrail, his favourite bird, was in the centre of a dish of plovers, and Dick had said, 'Shall I send you the landrail, Mr. Pole, or one of the plovers?'

'You young fool, the landrail, of course,' had been the old gentleman's indignant

reply. Dick had thought at the time he should never forget that incident, and the fright it had caused him; yet now he had offended still more heinously; he had had no intention of favouring Miss Meredith at her host's expense, but his soul was far from liver wings, and soaring on the wings of love.

The very same afternoon he actually addressed Leonard Greene as 'My dear Lucy,' but fortunately he took it for

Pussy,' so that no harm was done beyond putting that gentleman in a passion. Greene had not the least idea of his . friend's 'infatuation,' as he would no doubt have called it had he been aware of its existence. Young gentlemen do not, as a rule, confide to one another (as young ladies do) their little love affairs, unless they are utterly discreditable ones. Mr. Greene, indeed, had, as we have seen, at one time disclosed his, and yet it was surprising how cool, or perhaps only how prudent, he had grown since that misunderstanding between himself and Mr. Meredith; it

almost seemed that the tender plant of love had been unable to survive the storm

of ridicule in which it expectedly surprised.

had been so un

Still, it

struck

Richard that it would not be unsatisfactory to his friend to get the laugh upon his own side, and he felt quite a shudder at the opportunity he had given him, and which had been so narrowly missed. Not to think of Lucy was impossible, and if he spoke it seemed as if it was almost as impossible not to speak of her, so he kept henceforward a very jealous guard upon his lips. As the hours drew on, he became more and more taciturn, so that by the time the morning of the picnic arrived it was already agreed among his friends that Dick must be in love.

'It is not with me,' protested Miss Meredith, gaily.

'Qui s'excuse s'accuse,' said Mr. Greene. It was the first approach he had made to this delicate subject since that misinterpreted confession in the garden.

It is not with me,' echoed Margaret;

I

have played the rôle of elder sister to him so long that our relations are established upon that footing.'

'I don't think that Mr. Richard Talbot is a marrying man,' observed Miss Latour gravely.

This lady had once been Margaret's governess, but was now retained in the establishment in a sort of nondescript capacity which it would have been difficult to define. She was useful as a chaperon to her former pupil, but invaluable to Mr. Pole, because she knew the exact proportions in which certain kindly elements-anchovies, the herbs tarragon and chevril, and cream-were to be mixed in a salad.

The idea of Dick's marrying (at seventeen), and this serious allusion to it, convulsed her audience.

'You may laugh,' returned the old lady, still more gravely than before, but I can't help thinking there is something queer about Mr. Talbot.'

Her sole ground for this opinion was