‘Why don’t you say at once that she’s horribly stingy?’ said the outspoken Daphne. ‘I don’t think she ever spent sixpence, except upon her own clothes, all the time she lived in my father’s house, and I know she was always getting gowns and bonnets out of Madoline. I’ve seen her do it. But please don’t let’s talk of her any more. It’s rather worse than talking of him. I shall have to kiss her, and call her dear aunt presently, and I shall detest myself for being such a hypocrite.’ They had gone out by the lodge-gate by this time, the lodge with its thatched roof and dormer window, like a big eye looking out under a shaggy pent-house eyebrow; the lodge by which there grew one of those tall deodaras which were the chief glory of the grounds at South Hill. They crossed the high road, and entered the meadow-path which led towards Arden Rectory; and the setter finding himself at large in a field, frisked about a little as if with a faint suspicion of partridges. ‘Oh, by-the-by,’ began Daphne, in quite a new tone, ‘now that we are alone, I want you to tell me all about Lina’s engagement. Is he nice?’ Edgar Turchill’s face clouded over so darkly that the look seemed a sufficient answer to her question. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘You don’t like him.’ ‘I can’t say that. He’s an old acquaintance—a friend—a kind of family connection even, for his mother’s grandmother was a Turchill. But to be candid, I don’t like the engagement.’ ‘Why not, unless you know something against him?’ ‘I know nothing against him. He is a gentleman. He is ten times cleverer than I, ten times richer, a great deal handsomer—my superior in every way. I should be a mean cad if I couldn’t acknowledge as much as that. But——’ ‘You think Lina ought to have accepted him.’ ‘I think the match in every way suitable, natural, inevitable. How could he help falling in love with her? Why should she refuse him?’ ‘You are talking in riddles,’ said Daphne. ‘You say it is a suitable match, and a minute ago you said you did not like the engagement.’ ‘I say so still. Can’t you imagine a reason for my feelings?’ Daphne contemplated him thoughtfully for a few moments as they walked on. His frank English face looked graver than she ever remembered to have seen it—grave to mournfulness. ‘I am very sorry,’ she faltered. ‘I see. You are fond of her yourself. I am desperately sorry. I should have liked you ever so much better for a brother.’ ‘Don’t say that till you have seen Gerald. He has wonderful powers of fascination. He paints and poetises, and all that kind of thing, don’t you know; the sort of thing that pleases women. He can’t ride a little bit—no seat—no hands.’ ‘How dreadful!’ cried Daphne, aghast. ‘Does he tumble off?’ ‘I don’t mean that. He can stick in his saddle somehow; and he hunts when he’s at home in the season; but he can’t ride.’ ‘Oh,’ said Daphne, as if she were trying to understand this distinction.