“Please, Colonel, the Squire hopes you’ll go in and have a glass of summut before you start,” said George; so accordingly he went, not to “have a glass of summut,” but on the chance of seeing Ida.  In the vestibule he found the old gentleman busily engaged in writing an enormous letter.

“Hullo, Colonel,” he halloaed, without getting up, “glad to see you.  Excuse me for a few moments, will you, I want to get this off my mind.  Ida!  Ida!  Ida!” he shouted, “here’s Colonel Quaritch.”

“Good gracious, father,” said that young lady, arriving in a hurry, “you are bringing the house down,” and then she turned round and greeted Harold.  It was the first time they had met since the eventful evening described a chapter or two back, so the occasion might be considered a little awkward; at any rate he felt it so.

“How do you do, Colonel Quaritch?” she said quite simply, giving him her hand.  There was nothing in the words, and yet he felt that he was very welcome.  For when a woman really loves a man there is about her an atmosphere of softness and tender meaning which can scarcely be mistaken.  Sometimes it is only perceptible to the favoured individual himself, but more generally is to be discerned by any person of ordinary shrewdness.  A very short course of observation in general society will convince the reader of the justice of this observation, and when once he gets to know the signs of the weather he will probably light upon more affairs of the heart than were ever meant for his investigation.

This softness, or atmospheric influence, or subdued glow of affection radiating from a light within, was clearly enough visible in Ida that morning, and certainly it made our friend the Colonel unspeakably happy to see it.

“Are you fond of shooting?” she asked presently.

“Yes, very, and have been all my life.”

“Are you a good shot?” she asked again.

“I call that a rude question,” he answered smiling.

“Yes, it is, but I want to know.”

“Well,” said Harold, “I suppose that I am pretty fair, that is at rough shooting; I never had much practice at driven birds and that kind of sport.”

“I am glad of it.”

“Why, it does not much matter.  One goes out shooting for the sport of the thing.”

“Yes, I know, but Mr. Edward Cossey,” and she shrank visibly as she uttered the name, “is coming, and he is a very good shot and very conceited about it.  I want you to beat him if you can—­will you try?”

“Well,” said Harold, “I don’t at all like shooting against a man.  It is not sportsmanlike, you know; and, besides, if Mr. Cossey is a crack shot, I daresay that I shall be nowhere; but I will shoot as well as I can.”

“Do you know, it is very feminine, but I would give anything to see you beat him?” and she nodded and laughed, whereupon Harold Quaritch vowed in his heart that if it in him lay he would not disappoint her.