It was evident to Cosmo that Flora entertained a horror of him; and now that her anger had fully subsided and emotions of alarm replaced it, Lady Rohallion mourned for the poor lad, repenting of the past, and trembling for the unknown future. "A plague on your planning and match-making, Winny," said her husband, as they sat together on the old stone seat in the garden, late on the third evening after Quentin had disappeared; "I never knew any good come of that sort of thing." "You know, Reynold, how long this proposed marriage has been a favourite scheme of ourselves and the Warrenders," she urged, gently. "But you were--pardon me, Winny, dear--too officious or energetic; and Cosmo has been most reprehensibly rash!" "Ah, don't say so!" "I must! Had you left the girl to herself, this romantic fancy for her early playmate had soon been forgotten, or merged in a woman's love for Cosmo, and his proposal had been accepted, as I hope it yet shall be. Women change, don't they, sometimes?" he added, with a sly twinkle in his eyes. "Yes; but there must be reasons," said she, hesitatingly. "Of course--of course." "From the hints that Cosmo gave of what he had seen or overheard, I deemed it right to interfere." "An error, I think; couldn't you let the young folks alone? Heaven knows, many a girl I kissed, in my first red coat and epaulettes," said Rohallion, while knocking the gravel about with his silver-headed cane. "But Cosmo does so love that girl." "Love her?" said Rohallion, laughing. "Yes." "Then it must be after some odd fashion of his own." "How, my lord?" "Why, zounds! Cosmo has passed unscathed through the perils of too many London seasons to be bird-limed by a country belle like Flora, beautiful though she be. She is not the style of girl that passes muster with the Household Brigade, I fear." "Flora Warrender?" "I mean that she is too genuine--too unsophisticated--in fact, I don't know what I mean,--somewhat of a character, if you will; and then, Quentin--poor Quentin----" "Poor dear boy! pray don't upbraid me more, Reynold," she urged with tears. "I do not mean to do so, Winny." "I remember him only as the sweet little prattling child, saved from the wreck on that wild and stormy night; and I love him dearly, as if he were our own; he was full of affection and gentleness!" she continued, covering her face with her handkerchief. "And yet you trampled on him, Winny," said Lord Rohallion, taking a pinch of Prince's mixture with great energy, and making his hair-powder fly about like a floury halo, "trampled upon him as if he had been a beggar's cur--he a soldier's son!" "Oh, Reynold, upbraidings again!" "It wasn't like you, Winny, dear--it wasn't like you." "My deep interest in Cosmo's welfare, provocation at Quentin, and the extreme wilfulness of Flora, all served to bewilder me. I own that I was wrong and not quite myself; but the dear bairn is gone, Reynold, gone from our roof-tree, and sorrow avails not."