"People call her eccentric," Lord Otford continued, hotly, "because she goes about doing good—distributing alms—" The Admiral was about to exclaim, but Otford gave him no time. "You ’re prejudiced, you old reprobate. Wendover ’s willing, and there’s nothing in the way. The estates join. She’s sole heiress. Gad, sir, that alliance would make Jack the biggest man in the Three Kingdoms." "Is Jack fond of her?" "Does n’t object to her. Hesitates. Says he don’t want to marry at all. Says he has n’t had his fling." "Well—what’s it all got to do with me?" "Ever since Jack’s been home on leave, he’s done nothing but talk about you—" "Good lad!" cried Sir Peter, slapping his thigh. "I loved him when he was a middy on board the _Termagant_." "And he loves you. Coming to look you up. To-day, very likely. When he comes, refer to Caroline—carelessly. Say what a fine gel she is. Don’t say a word about the estate. These young whipper-snappers have such high-and-mighty ideas about marrying for money. Refer to young Beauchamp. Say in your time young fellers did n’t let other young fellers cut ’em out. See?" "You ’re a wily old fox, Jack. But, hark’ee! Sure he’s not in love with anybody else?" "He says he is n’t. Oh, there may be a Spanish Senorita!—Gad! I should almost be ashamed of him if there wasn’t!—But there’s no—no—" "No Lucy Pryor?" said the Admiral carelessly. The name seemed to fall on Lord Otford like a blow. He sat quite still a moment, looking straight before him into who knows what memories. At last he said very sadly, "No. No Lucy Pryor." The Admiral realised his own tactlessness. He took Lord Otford’s hand. "I beg your pardon, Jack. I ’m sorry." "It still hurts, Peter," said his Lordship with a wistful smile. "Like an old bullet.—Well! You ’ll do what you can, eh?—I don’t want you to overdo it. Just edge him in the right direction." "Keep his eye in the wind, what?" "That’s it.—Well? Any new-comers in the Walk?" "Yes," chuckled the Admiral, "two oil lamps. One in front of my house, and one in front of Sternroyd’s. They wanted to give us their new-fangled, stinking gas, but the whole Walk mutinied." "Very fine, but—" "They ’re only used when there’s no moon." "But I meant new people!" "Oh! Ah! Yes!—" Then with a sort of smack of the lips indicative of the highest appreciation, "A French widow and her daughter." At once Lord Otford showed a lively interest. "French, eh?—What? the little gel I saw going in?" "Yes," answered the Admiral, rising and leading his friend towards the Gazebo where his whisper would no longer make the windows of the Walk rattle. "Yes. They’re not really French, y’ know. Mother’s the widow of a Frenchman. Madame Lachesnais." This sounded very dull. His Lordship stifled a yawn, but he noticed the Admiral’s kindling eye, and felt constrained to continue the subject. "Pleasant?"