‘I didn’t know,’ says Susan. ‘And, besides, there was no long time, surely. Father told us you had no father or mother, but—have you’—with hesitation—‘no people belonging to you, Mr. Crosby?’ ‘One sister,’ says he. ‘One sister! And why doesn’t she live with you?’ ‘Ah, you must ask her that. Perhaps she wouldn’t care about it.’ ‘I should think she would love to live with you,’ says Susan. She utters this bold sentiment calmly, kindly, without so much as a blink of her long lashes. Crosby looks at her. Is she real, this pretty child? His inclination to laugh dies within him; and so dies, too, the inclination to utter the usual society speech, that with most society girls would have been considered the thing on an occasion like this. Both are done to death by Susan’s eyes, so calm, so sweet, so earnest, and so entirely without a second meaning of any sort. ‘Well, you see, she doesn’t,’ says he. ‘But why?’ asks Susan. She is feeling a little angry with the unknown sister. To live with Carew, if he were well off enough to have her, would, Susan thinks, be a most delightful arrangement. ‘It seems she prefers to live with another fellow,’ says he. Susan stares at him. He nods back at her. ‘Fact,’ says he. ‘Horrid taste on her part, isn’t it?’ ‘Oh, I see,’ says Susan slowly. ‘She’s married.’ ‘Very much,’ says Crosby. ‘At all events, her husband is. She doesn’t give him much rope. However, you’ll see her soon, as she is coming to stay with me. She always makes a point of coming to me for my birthday, whenever I chance to be in Ireland or England for it. I suppose I must be going now. I say, you two fellows’—turning to Carew and Dom—‘why are you so lazy? Why don’t you come up and help me to shoot the rabbits? They are getting beyond the keepers’ control.’ Dom and Carew glance at each other. ‘Can we?’ says Carew. They seem a little tongue-tied. ‘As often as ever you like. Look here, be up at six to-morrow morning, and we’ll catch them feeding. And if you will stay and breakfast with me, it will be a kindness to a solitary man.’ ‘Oh, thank you!’ says Dominick rapturously. Carew, however, looks a little crestfallen, whereupon Dom begins to whisper in his ear. The words ‘every second shot’ reach Mr. Crosby. ‘If either of you wants a gun, I can find you one,’ says he carelessly, after which joy unruffled reigns. ‘I make only one stipulation,’ he adds: ‘that you won’t shoot me.’ ‘Oh, hang it, we are not such duffers as that!’ says Carew. They all laugh at this, and all, as usual, accompany him to the gate to give him a kind send-off. As he disappears up the road past the little side-gate of the Cottage, Dom makes a rush back to the house. ‘I must go and polish up the old gun,’ says he. Betty follows him, with Tom and Jacky. ‘How kind he is!’ says Susan, turning to Carew. Her tone is warm and grateful. There is no doubt that Carew’s answer would have been equally warm, but it never comes.