Mr. Burton was thus left alone; seeing which, Roy asked him to go and look at a fast horse which he had recently purchased, and which was accounted by connoisseurs of horse-flesh a very fine animal. And so it came about that, after the horse had been duly examined and admired, Roy found himself alone with Mr. Burton in a little rustic arbor, apart from all the rest of his guests, and where he could not well be seen, as the arbor was hidden from the greater part of the grounds by the evergreens which grew so thickly around it. Now was Mr. Burton’s opportunity. He had planned admirably to get Roy into this retired situation, and he gave himself considerable credit for his management. But how to begin was the trouble, and he grew very red in the face, and felt so warm and uncomfortable that the perspiration began to show itself in little drops about his forehead and mouth. And still he could not think of a word to say, until he saw by Roy’s manner that he was meditating a return to the house. Then, screwing up his courage to the highest pitch, and holding on to the seat with both his hands, as if what he was about to do required physical as well as mental effort, he made a beginning. “I say, Roy,” he began, “I wonder you don’t get married. You’ve everything with which to make a wife happy, and surely there are scores of girls who would jump at the chance of coming here to live.” Roy gave a little tired yawn, and answered indifferently: “Perhaps so, but you see I don’t exactly know where they are, and I should not care to be refused,” and as he said it, visions of blue jackets, and white skirts, and little boots, mixed themselves together in his brain in a confused kind of way, and as was quite natural, a thought of Georgie, too, crossed his mind. He always thought of her when matrimony was suggested to him, but he had no suspicion that his companion was drifting that way. Poor Mr. Burton, who felt as if every particle of blood in his veins was rushing to his face and gathering around the roots of his hair, fidgeted from side to side, got up and looked behind him, spit several times, then sat down again, and said: “You are too modest, boy,—too modest. I know of forty, I’ll bet, that would not say no.” “Name one, please,” Roy said, shutting his eyes indolently, and leaning against the trunk of a tree. Mr. Burton hesitated a moment, and then replied: “Well, there’s Agatha Shawe for one, and Bell Bradley for another, and—and—(by Jove, I may as well blurt it out and done with it,) and Georgie, my wife’s niece. (I’m in for it now, confound it.) She’s a splendid girl; don’t lack for offers; had one this morning from that young Bigelow from Boston.” “Ah, did she? and will she accept?” Roy asked, beginning for the first time to feel some interest in the conversation.