“Now I’m no longer in service, and have some prospects, I want to find out if she will marry me!” “So it’s got as far as that, has it?” “No, it has not even started. Last time we met, she would not speak to me.” “And what are you going on, then?” “A mere chance. I believe there was a--a--misunderstanding, so a friend told me; anyway, she’s the only girl I could ever care for.” Sir Richard became more and more interested. Could it be possible that Owen had inherited such loyal devotion from himself? “Who is she?” he asked. “She is Miss Morven, daughter of the Rector at Ottinge and the Parretts’ niece. She sometimes came out in the motor, and I used to see her in the garden.” “And how did you make love to her--language of flowers, hey?” “No; I never was anything but the chauffeur. I see by the _Scotsman_ she is up at Lossiemouth with her uncle, General Morven.” “What--old Charlie Morven! Why, I know him. I’ll go up there with you and see you through--and take him out of your way.” “Do--it will be awfully decent of you; but Miss Morven may not have anything to do with _me_!” “What! not marry my nephew with Wynyard at his back and a fine fat fortune! Nonsense, nonsense! Here, waiter, just fetch me a _Bradshaw_.” Then to his companion, “I’ll wire for rooms to-night, and we will make a start for Lossiemouth first thing to-morrow morning.” CHAPTER XXXV REINSTATED It was dinner time in one of the larger hotels at Lossiemouth--a soft September evening, the windows stood wide, admitting the warm salt air, and above the clattering of plates and voices, one occasionally caught the murmuring of the North Atlantic, the creak of an oar, or the scream of a seagull. At a table in one corner a party of three were seated--a party that were, as a rule, accorded an unusual and flattering amount of attention--a white-moustached soldier, a dignified, elderly lady (whose grey hair was undoubtedly dressed by a maid), and a remarkably pretty, dark-eyed girl. They were in mourning, but nothing so deep as to suggest an overwhelming calamity; the young lady wore white, the elder black crêpe-de-chine, the man black studs and a black tie, and their names in the hotel register were “Major-General, Mrs., and Miss Morven, London.”