This was George Eildon, the only son of a brother of the late Lord Arthur.

Now comes the tug—­well, not of war, certainly, but, to change the figure—­now comes the cloud no bigger than a man’s hand which is to obscure the quiet sunshine of the regular and exemplary life of these three ladies.

Having been eight years at Garscube Hall, as a matter of necessity and in the ordinary course of Nature, Alice Garscube had grown up to womanhood.  With accustomed eccentricity, Lady Arthur entirely ignored this.  As for bringing her “out,” as the phrase is, she had no intention of it, considering that one of the follies of life:  Lady Arthur was always a law to herself.  Alice was a shy, amiable girl, who loved her guardian fervently (her ladyship had the knack of gaining love, and also of gaining the opposite in pretty decisive measure), and was entirely swayed by her; indeed, it never occurred to her to have a will of her own, for her nature was peculiarly sweet and guileless.

III.

Lady Arthur thought George Eildon a good-natured, rattling lad, with very little head.  This was precisely the general estimate that had been formed of her late husband, and people who had known both thought George the very fac-simile of his uncle Arthur.  If her ladyship had been aware of this, it would have made her very indignant:  she had thought her husband perfect while living, and thought of him as very much more than perfect now that he lived only in her memory.  But she made George very welcome as often as he came:  she liked to have him in the house, and she simply never thought of Alice and him in connection with each other.  She always had a feeling of pity for George.

“You know,” she would say to Miss Adamson and Alice—­“you know, George was of consequence for the first ten years of his life:  it was thought that his uncle the duke might never marry, and he was the heir; but when the duke married late in life and had two sons, George was extinguished, poor fellow! and it was hard, I allow.”

“It is not pleasant to be a poor gentleman,” said Miss Adamson.

“It is not only not pleasant,” said Lady Arthur, “but it is a false position, which is very trying, and what few men can fill to advantage.  If George had great abilities, it might be different, with his connection, but I doubt he is doomed to be always as poor as a church mouse.”

“He may get on in his profession perhaps,” said Alice, sharing in Lady Arthur’s pity for him. (George Eildon had been an attache to some foreign embassy.)

“Never,” said Lady Arthur decisively.  “Besides, it is a profession that is out of date now.  Men don’t go wilily to work in these days; but if they did, the notion of poor George, who could not keep a secret or tell a lie with easy grace if it were to save his life—­the notion of making him a diplomatist is very absurd.  No doubt statesmen are better without original ideas—­their business is to pick out the practical ideas of other men and work them well—­but George wants ability, poor fellow!  They ought to have put him into the Church:  he reads well, he could have read other men’s sermons very effectively, and the duke has some good livings in his gift.”