George made no reply:  it was evident that he could not trust himself to speak, but, turning sullenly on his heel, walked towards the house.

“Wait a bit, Mr. Heigham,” said Philip, who had been watching the whole scene with secret delight.  “You are perfectly in the right.  I will go and try to bring my cousin to his senses.  I am very thankful to your dog for killing that accursed brute.”

He was away for about ten minutes, during which Arthur took Aleck to a fountain there was in the centre of a grass plot in front of the house, and washed his many wounds, none of which, however, were, thanks to the looseness of his hide, very serious.  Just as he had finished that operation, a gardener arrived with a wheelbarrow to fetch away the deceased Snarleyow.

“Lord, sir,” he said to Arthur, “I am glad to have the job of tucking up this here brute.  He bit my missus last week, and killed a whole clutch of early ducks.  I seed the row through the bushes.  That ’ere dog of yours, sir, he did fight in proper style; I should like to have a dog like he.”

Just then the re-arrival of Philip put a stop to the conversation.  Drawing Arthur aside, he told him that George begged to apologize for what had occurred, and hoped that he would not think of going away.

“But,” added Philip, with a little laugh, “I don’t pretend that he has taken a fancy to you, and, if I were you, I should cut my visit short.”

“That is exactly my view of the case.  I will leave to-morrow evening.”

Philip made no further remarks for a few moments.  He was evidently thinking.  Presently he said,

“I see you have a fishing-rod amongst your things; if you find the time hang heavy on your hands to-morrow, or wish to keep out of the way, you had better come over to Bratham Lake and fish.  There are some very large carp and perch there, and pike too, for the matter of that, but they are out of season.”

Arthur thanked him, and said that he should probably come, and, having received instructions as to the road, they parted, Arthur to go and shut up Aleck in an outhouse pointed out to him by his friend the gardener, and thence to dress for a dinner that he looked forward to with dread, and Philip to make his way home.  As he passed up through the little flower-garden at the Abbey House, he came across his daughter, picking the blight from her shooting rose-trees.

“Angela,” he said, “I am sorry if I offended your prejudices this afternoon.  Don’t let us say anything more about it; but I want you to come and pay a formal call with me at Isleworth to-morrow.  It will only be civil that you should do so.”

“I never paid a call in my life,” she answered, doubtfully, “and I don’t want to call on my cousin George.”

“Oh! very well,” and he began to move on.  She stopped him.

“I will go, if you like.”

“At three o’clock, then.  Oh! by the way, don’t be surprised if you see a young gentleman fishing here to-morrow.”