The two girls departed somewhat scornfully, arm in arm, and the Rector too rose with a sigh, and accompanied the elder ladies to the house, whither they were going to meet the pony carriage that stood at the hall door.  A daily drive was part of Mrs. Lane’s ritual.

“By the way, you fellows,” Eugene resumed, throwing himself on the grass, “I may as well mention that Stafford doesn’t drink, or eat meat, or smoke, or play cards, or anything else.”

“What a peculiar beggar!” said Bob.

“Yes, and he’s peculiar in another way,” said Eugene, a little dryly; “he particularly objects to any remark being made on his habits—­I mean on what he eats and drinks and so on.”

“There I agree,” said Bob; “I object to any remarks on what I eat and drink”; and he look a long pull at the beer.

“You must treat him with respect, young man.  Haddington, I know, will study him as a phenomenon.  I can’t protect him against that.”

Mr. Haddington smiled and remarked that such revivals of mediaevalism were interesting, if morbid; and having so delivered himself, he too went his way.

“That chap’s considered very clever, isn’t he?” asked Bob of his host, indicating Haddington’s retreating figure.

“Very, I believe,” said Eugene.  “He’s a cuckoo, you see.”

“Dashed if I do,” said Bob.

“He steals other birds’ nests—­eggs and all.”

“Your natural history is a trifle mixed, old fellow; kindly explain.”

“Well, he’s a thief of ideas.  Never was the father of one himself, and gets his living by kidnapping.”

“I never knew such a chap!” ejaculated Bob helplessly.  “Why can’t you say plainly that you think he’s an ass?”

“I don’t,” said Eugene.  “He’s by no means an ass.  He’s a very clever fellow.  But he lives on other men’s ideas!”

“Oh! come and play billiards.”

“I can’t,” said Eugene gravely.  “I’m going to read poetry to Kate.”

“By Jove, does she make you do that?”

Eugene nodded sadly, and Bob went off into a fit of obtrusive chuckling.  Eugene cast a large cushion dexterously at him and caught him just in the mouth, and, still sadly, rose and went in search of his lady-love.

“Why the dickens does he marry that girl?” exclaimed Bob.  “It beats me.”

Bob Territon was not the only person in whom Eugene’s engagement to Kate Bernard inspired some surprise.  But neither he nor any one else succeeded in formulating very definite reasons for the feeling.  Kate was a beauty, and a beauty of a type undeniably orthodox and almost aristocratic.  She was tall and slight, her nose was the least trifle arched, her fingers tapered, and so, it was believed, did her feet.  Her hair was golden, her mouth was small, and her accomplishments considerable.  From her childhood she had been considered clever, and had vindicated her reputation by gaining more than one certificate