“The Bushes! a Devonshire family of that name, I presume?” Guy interrupted, with intense gravity.  “How wrong of them!  They are very ill-regulated young men down in those parts, I believe.”

“Don’t be absurd; I never saw a creature for months between fifteen and fifty.  Are not those ages safe?” (A shake of the head from Livingstone.) “I began to be very unhappy; I had no one to tease; my aunts are too good-natured, and mamma is used to it.  At last I had the greatest mind to do something desperate—­to write to you, for instance—­merely to see the household’s horror when your answer came.  You would have answered, would you not?  I should not have opened it, you know, but given it to mamma, like a good child.”

“Of course; I know you show all your letters to your mother.  But that ruralizing must have been fearful for you, poverina!  People were talking a good deal of agricultural distress, but this is the most piteous case I’ve heard of.  So there were really no men to govern in that wood?”

“Not even a little boy,” said Flora, decisively.  “There were two or three from Oxford in the neighborhood; I used to see them sitting outside their lodgings in the sun, like rabbits, but they always ran in before—­”

“Before you could get a shot at them, you mean?” broke in Guy; “you ought to have crept up, and stalked them cleverly.”

Flora threw hack her handsome head.  “I don’t war with children.  It went on just as I tell you till we left for our round of winter visits, which have been very stupid and correct—­till now.”

I hardly caught the two last words, she spoke them so low.  There was silence for several minutes, and then Guy leaned back to address me.

“Do you remember Arthur Darrell, of Christchurch, Frank, the man that used to speak at the Union, and was always raving about ebon locks and dark eyes?”

“I remember him well.  I have not seen him for years; but I heard he was getting on well in the law.”

“He’ll have time to get tired of brunettes—­if any one ever does get tired of them—­before he comes back,” said Guy.  “He’s just gone out to try the Indian bar.”

“What could have put such an idea into his head?” I asked, very innocently.

“I can’t say,” was the reply; “men do take such curious fancies.  It was a sudden determination, I believe.  The beauties of the Eastern hemisphere began to develop themselves to his weak mind last summer while he was down with his people in—­Devonshire.”

Involuntarily I looked at Miss Bellasys.  She saw she was detected; but, instead of betraying any embarrassment, she turned upon Guy a queer little imploring look, not indicative in the least of shame or repentance, but such as might be put on by one of those truly excellent people who do good by stealth and blush to find it known, when some of their benevolent acts have come to light, and they wish to deprecate praise.