Did the distance and the doors always deaden the sounds of late revels, so as not to break Lady Catharine’s slumbers?  I fear not.

CHAPTER VI.

     “Thou art not steeped in golden languors;
     No tranced summer calm is thine,
     Ever-varying Madeline.”

It was a woodland meet, a long way off, the morning after we arrived, so we staid at home; and, after breakfast, Guy having to give audience to keepers and other retainers, I strolled out with Forrester to smoke in the stables.  I have seldom seen a lot which united so perfectly bone and blood.  Livingstone gave any price for his horses; the only thing he was not particular about was their temper; more than one looked eminently unsuited to a nervous rider, and a swinging bar behind them warned the stranger against incautious approach.

After duly discussing and admiring the stud, we established ourselves on the sunniest stone bench in the garden, and I asked my companion to tell me something of what Guy had been doing during my absence.

“Well, it’s rather hard to say,” answered Charley.  “He never takes the trouble to conceal any thing; but then, you see, he never tells one any thing either; so it’s only guess work, after all.  He lives very much like other men in the Household Brigade; plays heavily, though not regularly; but he always has two affaires de coeur, at least, on hand at once; that’s his stint.”

“So he still persecutes the weaker sex unremittingly?” I asked, laughing.

“In a way peculiar to himself,” said Forrester; “he is always strictly courteous, but decidedly sarcastic.  Poor things, they are easily imposed upon; he very soon has them well in hand, and they can never get their heads up afterward.  I suppose they like it, for it seems to answer admirably.  Last season he divided himself pretty equally between Constance Brandon and Flora Bellasys—­quite the two best things out, though as opposite to each other in every way as the poles.  To do Miss Brandon justice, I don’t think she knew much of the other flirtation; she always went away early, and he used to take up her rival for the rest of the evening.”

“But the said rival—­how did she like the divided homage?”

“Not at all at first; at least, she used to look revolvers at Guy from time to time—­(ah! you should see the Bellasys’ eyes when they begin to lighten)—­but he always brought her back to the lure, and at last she seemed to take it quite as a matter of course, keeping all her after-supper waltzes for him religiously, though half the men in town were trying to cut in.  I can’t make out how he does it.  Do you think his size and sinews can have any thing to do with it?” He said this gravely and reflectively.

“Not unlikely,” I replied; “the fortiter in re goes a long way with women apparently, even where there is not a tongue like his to back it.  Don’t you remember Juvenal’s strong-minded heroine, who left husband and home to follow the scarred, maimed gladiator?  I doubt if the Mirmillo was a pleasant or intellectual companion.  Now I want you to tell me something about Guy’s cousin and her father; they are coming here to-day, and I have never met them.”