'What a place this is for gammon and spinach!' thought Hew, who viewed all this with extreme distaste, and still more the intimacy that progressed between this 'interloper,' as he deemed him, and Mary Montgomerie; for they nightly played together the mazurkas of Chopin and selections from the songs of Mendelssohn and the operas of Verdi, while Hew looked darkly and dubiously on, thinking there was in all this far more than met the eye; and Sir Piers thought, with a smile, that a Cameronian of _his_ time would certainly not have shone much as a pianist. Mary was always so happy in herself, that she usually made all others equally so; thus, in her society, the hours, with Falconer, seemed to fly like minutes. Hew had--unknown to Sir Piers--become so seriously involved in monetary matters during his sojourn in India, that it was next to impossible for him to return there; and his chief hope for retrieving himself and doing well for the future lay in a marriage with Mary Montgomerie, rather than the prospective succession to the baronetcy and to the acres of Eaglescraig, for Sir Piers was a hale old fellow and might live for twenty years yet. Indeed, everyone said so. Thus he viewed with extreme bitterness and jealousy the visit of Falconer and some of the details attendant on that visit, and his closely-set and parti-coloured eyes twinkled dangerously as he muttered: 'Devil take me if I don't bowl that fellow out yet!' If Hew had been tender and true, less brusque and coarse--had really loved Mary with a loving heart--she might have felt some compunction for her laughing indifference to his suit; but she knew well his avarice, his monetary hopes, and suspected some of his vices; and, more than all, her proud spirit revolted at the idea of being made by her father's will the mere puppet of a family compact, and _compelled_ to marry any man. 'I heard you arranging a riding-party to-morrow, Mary,' said he, during a pause (or while Falconer was being accompanied in an Italian song by Miss Erroll), and bending over Mary till his moustache nearly touched the white and close division in her rich dark-brown hair, while she idled over an album of Indian photographs. 'Yes--you will go, of course, Hew?' said she, looking up at him with her sunny hazel eyes bright with a smile. 'I would rather be excused,' he replied, sulkily. 'Why?' 'Why? because I should be only in the way.' 'Please yourself, Hew; but I do not understand you,' said Mary, colouring with annoyance; '_what_ do you mean?' 'I mean,' said he bluntly, and in a low, concentrated voice, 'that before this Cameronian fellow came, you and I were--were----' 'Were what?' asked Mary, sharply. 'Well, friends, at least.' 'And are we not friends now?' she said, laying her hand on his arm. He looked lingeringly at it--a lovely hand it was, round and white, with a golden bangle clasping the dimpled wrist--and he said in a low voice: 'I had hoped we should in time be something dearer----'