Owen nodded, and Mr Simpson bowed.

’We’re going out fishing, but you’ll find Netta—­in bed, I’m afraid, but she’ll be glad to see you anywhere.  Go up the avenue, and let Netta know you’ve come.  We shall be home to dinner at seven.  Good-bye for the present.’

Owen did not stay to consider, but walked past the handsome lodge, and up the drive, according to Howel’s direction.

‘Mighty condescending and very patronising, cousin Howel!’ he soliloquised; ’but I will go and see how Netta gets on, and how your highness treats her.’

He reached the house, and rang stoutly at the bell.  A servant answered it, who was adjusting his coat just put on, he not having expected such early visitors.

‘The back entrance is round the corner there, young man,’ were his words on perceiving Owen, whose pride was greatly roused thereby.

‘Tell Mrs Howel Jenkins that her brother, Mr Owen Prothero, is here,’ said Owen, intending to electrify the man.

But he did not succeed.  The servants knew very well that their mistress’s family was not of ‘county rank,’ and that its members were not upon terms with the Aberteweys, therefore had no very high opinion of them.  He turned on his heel, and told a female servant to tell Lucette, the French maid, to tell her mistress that Mr Owen Prothero was at the door.

In a few minutes the man reappeared, and, with a great increase of civility, asked Mr Prothero to walk into the breakfast-room, and said his mistress would be down as soon as possible.  Whilst he was admiring the room and its costly furniture, and considering the tea service, a smart little French-woman came to him and asked him in French, whether he would stay to breakfast; as he knew something of the language he replied in the affirmative.  Then appeared an equally smart and fascinating French valet, who begged to be allowed the honour of conducting Monsieur to a bedroom, to arrange his toilet.

Owen laughed heartily and followed the man, who took up his knapsack daintily, and led him to a very handsome bedroom, where Owen brushed his hair as becomingly as he could, arranged his beard, and made himself as smart as his wardrobe would allow of his doing.  He was, as we have before said, a very handsome young man, and sufficiently well mannered to pass muster anywhere.

‘What is the next act, I wonder?’ said he, as he found his way into the breakfast-room.  He was quite taken aback as he entered, when he saw a pale young lady sitting in one of the windows, reading.  He made his bow, she curtseyed, and said,—­

‘Mrs Howel Jenkins’ brother, I believe?  My name is Simpson.’

Owen bowed again, and not being of a shy turn, and having seen ladies of various degrees during his travels, began to make himself agreeable.

In a few minutes, a little French fairy flitted into the room, with her hair off her face to display such eyes and complexion as are rare in all times; and muslins, laces, and ribbons so blended, as to set off a petite figure to the very best advantage.  Owen was going to bow again, when a little affected laugh, and a ’Ma foi! he doesn’t know me, Miss Simpson,’ proclaimed the fairy to be his sister Netta.