Mr. Rickards sighed responsively; he had heard men speak of the affection, and the symptoms they mentioned were quite appalling. “Her Ladyship’s not down yet, but Miss Georgina is in the drawing-room,” added he, with great significance of manner. “Step this way, Sir.” Miss Courtenay was busily engaged searching for a letter in her writing-desk when the butler announced, in his most emphatic manner, Mr. M’Kinlay; but she only turned her head round, and, with a weak smile, said, “Oh, Mr. M’Kinlay! I trust they did not keep you waiting on the road. You know we have been obliged to have the gate locked.” “I heard so. Indeed, I have heard of little else since my arrival, Miss Conrtenay,” said he, not altogether mastering the anger he felt at his cool reception. “I hope Lady Vyner is well.” “Yes; as well as she ever is. What a provoking thing it is to mislay a letter; but I suppose it is an oversight you have never committed. You have everything in order, docketed, pigeon-holed, and what not.” “Pardon me, I am the most careless of men. All about me is a chaos of confusion.” “Indeed!” said she, with a faint, very faint show of interest, as though quite unexpectedly aware of some favourable trait in his character. “Who would have thought it! It is a letter from my niece’s governess I have lost, and with it all clue to her address.” “I can, perhaps, supply that,” said Mr. M’Kinlay; “at least, if it be the town she stopped at while the yacht is being repaired.” “Exactly so. What’s the name of it?” “Here it is,” said he, producing a small clasped note-book, from which, after a brief search, he read, “Mademoiselle Heinzleman’s address will meanwhile be, ‘Carrick’s Royal Hotel, Westport, Ireland.’” “What a blessing is red tapery after all!” said she, in a sort of soliloquy. “If there were not these routine people, what would become of us?” “I am charmed that even my blemishes should have rendered you a service,” said he, with a tingling cheek. “I don’t think my sister knows you are here,” said she, ignoring all his remarks. “I suspect Rickards must have told her,” said he, half stiffly. “Just as likely not; he is getting so stupid--_so_ old.” This was a very cruel speech to be so emphasized, for Rickards was only one year Mr. M’Kinlay’s senior. “He looks active, alert, and I’d not guess him above forty-six, or seven.” “I don’t care for the number of his years, but he is old enough to be fussy and officious, and he has that atrocious activity which displays itself with certain middle-aged people by a quick, short step, abrupt speech, and a grin when they don’t hear you. Oh, don’t you hate that deaf-man’s smile?” Mr. M’Kinlay would fain have smiled too, but he feared the category it would sentence him to. “I’m afraid you expected to find my brother here, but he’s away; he is cruising somewhere along the coast of Ireland.”