“There, Alick, is that the effect of your weight of wisdom?  I shall be more impressed with it than ever.  It has redeemed the character of your profession.  Captain Keith and the army.”

“I am afraid I cannot flatter myself,” said Alick; and a sort of reflection of Rachel’s burning colour seemed to have lighted on his cheek, “its reputation has been in better hands.”

“O Colonel Colin!  Depend upon it, he is not half as sage as you, Alick.  Why, he is a dozen years older!—­What, don’t you know, Miss Curtis, that the older people grow the less sage they get?”

“I hope not,” said Rachel.

“Do you!  A contrary persuasion sustains me when I see people obnoxiously sage to their fellow-creatures.”

“Obnoxious sageness in youth is the token that there is stuff behind,” said Alick, with eagerness that set his sister laughing at him for fitting on the cap; but Rachel had a sort of odd dreamy perception that Bessie Keith had unconsciously described her (Rachel’s) own aspect, and that Alick was defending her, and she was silent and confused, and rather surprised at the assumption of the character by one who she thought could never even exert himself to be obnoxious.  He evidently did not wish to dwell on the subject, but began to inquire after Avonmouth matters, and Rachel in return asked for Mr. Clare.

“Very well,” was the answer; “unfailing in spirits, every one agreed that he was the youngest man at the wedding.”

“Having outgrown his obnoxious sageness,” said Bessie.

“There is nothing he is so adroit at as guessing the fate of a croquet-ball by its sound.”

“Now Bessie,” exclaimed Alick.

“I have not transgressed, have I?” asked Bessie; and in the exclamations that followed, she said, “You see what want of confidence is.  This brother of mine no sooner saw you in the carriage than he laid his commands on me not to ask after your croquet-ground all the way home, and the poor word cannot come out of my mouth without—­”

“I only told you not to bore Miss Curtis with the eternal subject, as she would think you had no more brains than one of your mallets,” he said, somewhat energetically.

“And if we had begun to talk croquet, we should soon have driven him outside.”

“But suppose I could not talk it,” said Rachel, “and that we have no ground for it.”

“Why, then,”—­and she affected to turn up her eyes,—­“I can only aver that the coincidence of sentiments is no doubt the work of destiny.”

“Bessie!” exclaimed her brother.

“Poor old fellow! you had excuse enough, lying on the sofa to the tune of tap and click; but for a young lady in the advanced ranks of civilization to abstain is a mere marvel.”

“Surely it is a great waste of time,” said Rachel.

“Ah! when I have converted you, you will wonder what people did with themselves before the invention.”