who aspires to the honourable office of leading another by the nose can tolerate a party in his ambition.  Benson’s surly instinct told him he was in the wise youth’s way, and he resolved to give his master a striking proof of his superior faithfulness.  For some weeks the Saurian eye had been on the two secret creatures.  Heavy Benson saw letters come and go in the day, and now the young gentleman was off and out every night, and seemed to be on wings.  Benson knew whither he went, and the object he went for.  It was a woman—­that was enough.  The Saurian eye had actually seen the sinful thing lure the hope of Raynham into the shades.  He composed several epistles of warning to the baronet of the work that was going on; but before sending one he wished to record a little of their guilty conversation; and for this purpose the faithful fellow trotted over the dews to eavesdrop, and thereby aroused the good fairy, in the person of Tom Bakewell, the sole confidant of Richard’s state.

Tom said to his young master, “Do you know what, sir?  You be watched!”

Richard, in a fury, bade him name the wretch, and Tom hung his arms, and aped the respectable protrusion of the butler’s head.

“It’s he, is it?” cried Richard.  “He shall rue it, Tom.  If I find him near me when we’re together he shall never forget it.”

“Don’t hit too hard, sir,” Tom suggested.  “You hit mortal hard when you’re in earnest, you know.”

Richard averred he would forgive anything but that, and told Tom to be within hail to-morrow night—­he knew where.  By the hour of the appointment it was out of the lover’s mind.

Lady Blandish dined that evening at Raynham, by Adrian’s pointed invitation.  According to custom, Richard started up and off, with few excuses.  The lady exhibited no surprise.  She and Adrian likewise strolled forth to enjoy the air of the Summer night.  They had no intention of spying.  Still they may have thought, by meeting Richard and his inamorata, there was a chance of laying a foundation of ridicule to sap the passion.  They may have thought so—­they were on no spoken understanding.

“I have seen the little girl,” said Lady Blandish.  “She is pretty—­she would be telling if she were well set up.  She speaks well.  How absurd it is of that class to educate their women above their station!  The child is really too good for a farmer.  I noticed her before I knew of this; she has enviable hair.  I suppose she doesn’t paint her eyelids.  Just the sort of person to take a young man.  I thought there was something wrong.  I received, the day before yesterday, an impassioned poem evidently not intended for me.  My hair was gold.  My meeting him was foretold.  My eyes were homes of light fringed with night.  I sent it back, correcting the colours.”

“Which was death to the rhymes,” said Adrian.  “I saw her this morning.  The boy hasn’t bad taste.  As you say, she is too good for a farmer.  Such a spark would explode any System.  She slightly affected mine.  The Huron is stark mad about her.”