“I know!” impatiently.  “I wish to Heaven I had not been.  Boy as I was, I should have learned something.  Did you never hear the cause of the captain’s gloom?”

“No; papa and mamma knew nothing, and Captain Hunsden kept his own secrets.  They had heard of his marriage some four or five years before—­a low marriage, it was rumored—­an actress, or something equally objectionable.  Little Harrie knew nothing—­at three years it was hardly likely; but she never prattled of her mother as children of that age usually do.  There is some mystery about Captain Hunsden’s wife, and—­pardon me—­if you like Miss Hunsden, you ought to have it cleared up.”

Everard laughed—­a harsh, strident laugh.

“If I like Miss Hunsden, my dear little non-committal Milly.  Am I to go to Hunsden Hall and say to its master, ’Look here, Captain Hunsden, give me proofs of your marriage—­tell me all about your mysterious wife.  You have a very handsome, high-spirited daughter, but before I commit myself by falling in love with her, I want to make sure there was no tarnish on the late Mrs. Hunsden’s wedding-ring.’  Captain Harold Hunsden is a proud man.  How do you think he will like the style of that?”

Mildred stood silent, looking distressed.

“I wish I had married Lady Louise a month ago, and gone out of the country!” he burst out, vehemently.  “I wish I had never seen this girl.  She is everything that is objectionable—­a half-civilized madcap—­shrouded in mystery and poverty—­danced over the world in a baggage-wagon.  I have quarreled with my mother for the first time on her account.  But I love her—­I love her with all my heart—­and I shall go mad or shoot myself if I don’t make her my wife!”

He flung himself impetuously, face downward, on the sofa.  Mildred stood pallid and scared in the middle of the floor.  Once he lifted his head and looked at her.

“Go away, Milly!” he said, hoarsely.  “I’m a savage to frighten you so!  Leave me; I shall be better alone.”

And Mildred, not knowing what else to do, went.

Next morning, hours before Lady Kingsland was out of bed, Lady Kingsland’s son was galloping over the breezy hills and golden downs.  An hour’s hard run, and he made straight for Hunsden Hall.

Miss Hunsden was taking a constitutional up and down the terrace overlooking the sea, with three big dogs.  She turned round at Sir Everard’s approach and greeted him quite cordially.

“Papa is so much better this morning,” she said, “that he is coming down to breakfast.  He is subject to these attacks, and they never last long.  Any exciting news overthrows him altogether.”

“That letter contained exciting news, then?” Sir Everard could not help saying.

“I presume so—­I did not read it.  How placid the sea looks this morning, aglitter in the sunlight.  And yet I have been in the middle of the Atlantic when the waves ran mountains high.”