“And this?”

“That is Mademoiselle de Barras, my daughter’s governess, and Mrs. Marston’s companion,” said Marston, drily.

“Ha!” said Sir Wynston; “I thought you were but three at home just now, and I was right.  Your son is at Cambridge; I heard so from our old friend, Jack Manbury.  Jack has his boy there too.  Egad, Dick, it seems but last week that you and I were there together.”

“Yes,” said Marston, looking gloomily into the fire, as if he saw, in its smoke and flicker, the phantoms of murdered time and opportunity; “but I hate looking back, Wynston.  The past is to me but a medley of ill-luck and worse management.”

“Why what an ungrateful dog you are!” returned Sir Wynston, gaily, turning his back upon the fire, and glancing round the spacious and handsome, though somewhat faded apartment.  “I was on the point of congratulating you on the possession of the finest park and noblest demesne in Cheshire, when you begin to grumble.  Egad, Dick, all I can say to your complaint is, that I don’t pity you, and there are dozens who may honestly envy you—­that is all.”

In spite of this cheering assurance, Marston remained sullenly silent.  Supper, however, had now been served, and the little party assumed their places at the table.

“I am sorry, Wynston, I have no sport of any kind to offer you here,” said Marston, “except, indeed, some good trout-fishing, if you like it.  I have three miles of excellent fishing at your command.”

“My dear fellow, I am a mere cockney,” rejoined Sir Wynston; “I am not a sportsman; I never tried it, and should not like to begin now.  No, Dick, what I much prefer is, abundance of your fresh air, and the enjoyment of your scenery.  When I was at Rouen three years ago—­”

“Ha!—­Rouen?  Mademoiselle will feel an interest in that; it is her birth-place,” interrupted Marston, glancing at the Frenchwoman.

“Yes—­Rouen—­ah—­yes!” said mademoiselle, with very evident embarrassment.

Sir Wynston appeared for a moment a little disconcerted too, but rallied speedily, and pursued his detail of his doings at that fair town of Normandy.

Marston knew Sir Wynston well; and he rightly calculated that whatever effect his experience of the world might have had in intensifying his selfishness or hardening his heart, it certainly could have had none in improving a character originally worthless and unfeeling.  He knew, moreover, that his wealthy cousin was gifted with a great deal of that small cunning which is available for masking the little scheming of frivolous and worldly men; and that Sir Wynston never took trouble of any kind without a sufficient purpose, having its center in his own personal gratification.