"Mean! why, what should I mean?" replied the Irishman, and smiled innocently. CHAPTER VI. THE REVEREND MANNERS BROCK. The young men were seated on the terrace in the warm summer twilight. The plains of corn beyond the dark trees were filled with floating shadows, and the pale radiance of the long-set sun still lingered in the western skies. Overhead a few stars shone with mellow lustre in the warm, purple arch; but the moon had not yet rolled her wheel over the distant hills, and the dusk was faintly luminous, so that the landscape was indistinctly visible, as through a filmy veil. There was no breath of wind, and the trees seemed to extend their opaque shadows, even to the verge of the glimmering white terrace. At intervals a nightingale filled the dusk with silvery strains, and occasionally the hoot of a distant owl sounded like depreciative criticism of the bird music. So still, so dreamy, so peacefully beautiful, it was a magic night for love and lovers, for dancing elves and poet's singing. Yet this unromantic pair were talking the crudest commonplaces--harsh music for such an hour, for such a scene. But there are times when man sympathizes with Nature as little as does she with him. "Well, Jim," said Mallow, after a pause and a sip of warming liqueur, "it is now a week since those marplots came on the scene. What is your candid opinion?" With a flick of his finger, Aldean sent the stump of his cigarette flying over the balustrade. "That is what I should like to do," he said, in his deep voice; "chuck them both into space." "I did not ask you what you would like to do to them, but what you think of them." "They are two bounders--at least, Semberry is one." "You are prejudiced, my James," said Mallow, coolly; "Semberry is a well-bred man, but Carson--ahem!--Carson is not a gentleman." "In other words, Carson is not Carson." "Upon my soul, Jim, I don't believe he is." Mallow jumped up, and balanced himself on the railing of the terrace immediately before his friend. "I don't believe he is," he repeated. "He is supposed to have come from India. Well, he knows precious little about India, although I have questioned him repeatedly. He talks with a distinct foreign accent; his every action is suggestive of continental society, and he looks like an Italian. See here, Jim"--he slipped down, clicked his heels together, and made a stiff bow from the waist--"is that English?" He mimicked Carson's speech: "You think so, yes? Is that English, Jim? I ask you plainly, is there anything English about the man?" "Well, he isn't English, you know," was Jim's reply. "His father was a Saxon, and, from all accounts, a public school boy, a University man, gently born and well-bred. Why isn't his son--if this man be his son--more like him?"