“Colonel Stratton,” Robert remarked, _more suo_, as he seated himself. “I met him at the top of Park Lane, and he was most anxious to discover my exact opinion of the atmospheric conditions of the day; seemed delighted when I agreed with him that there was moisture in the air.” Isabel laughed heartily. “Was that all that passed between you?” she inquired. “Not quite. He wanted me to go with him to Barnet--was it Barnet? on a coach driven by a friend of his, a Captain Cullen--Hullen----” “Captain Mullen,” Isabel corrected, much amused. “He is a first-rate whip. Why didn’t you go? It would have been delightful.” “I’m afraid the company would have been rather too military for my tastes. Besides, I told him I was coming to see you. He begged me to----” “To do what?” “Nay, he himself paused at the ‘to’; the rest I was doubtless to understand. I presume from his manner that I was to present his respects to you.” “Our friend Colonel Stratton,” Isabel explained to Kingcote, “is habitually at a loss for words. He really is the shyest man I ever knew. I tease him dreadfully, and I don’t think he minds it a bit.” “Coach-driving,” remarked Robert. “Singular taste that. One is disposed to suggest hereditary influences.” Kingcote rose. “Must you go?” Isabel asked. “I must,” was the brief reply. “I don’t think you ever met Mr. Kingcote at Knightswell?” Isabel said, when the door had closed. “I remember your speaking of him. Is he in London permanently?” “I believe so.” A purpose, which Isabel had had in mentioning him, passed, and she spoke of other things....