She hated to see her looking at him, or speaking to him, with eyes at once innocent and caressing; and as for Tom, he was simply idiotic about his niece; from time to time, he would come into her bedroom, dressed, or half-dressed, as the case might be, to rave of Letty’s perfections and beauty; to descant on her sweet disposition, and to wind up by declaring, “She’s like sunshine in the house.” The poor man was undoubtedly bewitched, and his enthusiasm received but a tepid acknowledgment. (If you really wish to know a woman’s bad points--praise her to another.) His wife very solemnly and deliberately, enumerated the girl’s many failings. She was unpunctual, she was forgetful, she was untidy--and she was weak. As for him, he was too silly for anything, and was only making himself absolutely ridiculous, and the laughing-stock of the whole neighbourhood! But as it happened few of the Neighbourhood (spelt with a capital N) had beheld Colonel Fenchurch’s young relative. County folk do not visit in winter; the great summer gatherings, at cricket matches, tennis, garden parties, and picnics, were over: friends and acquaintances, for the most part, met and exchanged news and gossip in the hunting-field, and for this reason the beautiful flower blooming at The Holt, was so far blushing unseen. It was Letty’s daily task to take the dogs out for exercise; Sam, the apoplectic pug, Jerry, the impetuous Irish setter, and Locky, the aggressive Aberdeen. One afternoon, as she was plodding along through a muddy lane accompanied by her usual escort, she heard the horn in the distance, and presently the trotting of horses, who were evidently approaching rapidly. And yes, here, coming round a sharp bend, was the whole red-coated hunt. She hurried into the field with her precious charges, and snatching up the snorting and bewildered pug, established herself behind the gate, from where she could safely watch the cavalcade, as it splashed and pounded by. A stout, dark-eyed man on a magnificent horse, glanced at her casually, then stared hard--finally he looked back. This individual was Mr. Blagdon, who was enjoying a day’s run, and rather middling sport with the Brakesby pack. He was struck by the figure at the gate; a girl with a beautiful eager face, holding in her arms a struggling dog; but although he made prompt enquiries, not one among his many acquaintances could tell him the name of the young lady in the blue cloak, whom they had passed in Rapstone lane. CHAPTER III