"He is not the man to keep that sort of pressure to himself." "Jack, you liked her before there was any talk of these estates?" "Of course I did." He spoke impatiently, as if the subject were already exhausted, whereas Miss Cartwright, longing for fuller details, felt as if it were only beginning. "I wish I had known Phillis before," she said sighing, and at the sigh the young fellow's heart reproached him again. "She said the same," he said, turning towards her and speaking gravely; "I fancy you'll get on with her--everybody doesn't, you know. She's-- but there's no good in attempting to describe her, I was never good at that sort of thing; the only thing I could say about you was that you weren't tall or black." Miss Cartwright brightened. She had a warm corner ready in her kind heart for the girl who was to be Jack's wife; no jealousy made the prospect bitter, she was already planning, welcoming, sympathising. Jack himself jumped up; he said he would go to the hotel where he was putting up and come back to dinner. It was a concession, for he would encounter Miss Preston, but he had not the heart to disappoint his aunt that first evening, and afterwards he acknowledged that it had not been so bad. The window was open, the moon was sailing through blue, profound skies, her light fell like silver on the glossy leaves, and there was a sort of happy hum in the air, distant talk and gay laughter. Miss Preston fell asleep, Jack and his aunt sat near the window, sometimes silent, sometimes chatting. As for Cartouche, he pleased himself in his own way, rushing every now and then into the garden in pursuit of a foe who he was quite conscious did not exist, and returning with the proud air of one who has discomfited his enemy.