What's Bred in the Bone. Allen Grant
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was a start, not of mere neutral surprise, but of positive disinclination and regret at the meeting. Nay, even now he was angling hard, with all the skill of a strategist, to keep the Warings out of Lady Emily’s way. But the more he talked to them, the more interested he seemed. It was clear he meant to make the most of this passing chance—and never again, if he could help it, Elma felt certain, to see them.
Once, and once only, Granville Kelmscott, his son, strolled casually up and joined the group by pure chance for a few short minutes. The heir of Tilgate Park was tall and handsome, though less so than his father; and Mrs. Clifford was not wholly indisposed to throw him and Elma together as much as possible. Younger by a full year than the two Warings, Granville Kelmscott was not wholly unlike them in face and manner. As a rule, his father was proud of him, with a passing great pride, as he was proud of every other Kelmscott possession. But to-day, Elma’s keen eye observed that the Colonel’s glance moved quickly in a rapid dart from Cyril and Guy to his son Granville, and back again from his son Granville to Guy and Cyril. What was odder still, the hasty comparison seemed to redound not altogether to Granville’s credit. The Colonel paused, and stifled a sigh as he looked; then, in spite of Mrs. Clifford’s profound attempts to retain the heir by her side, he sent the young man off at a moment’s notice to hunt up Lady Emily. Now why on earth did he want to keep Granville and the Warings apart? Mrs. Clifford and Elina racked their brains in vain; they could make nothing of the mystery.
It was a long afternoon, and Elma enjoyed it, though she never got her tete-a-tete after all with Cyril Waring. Just a rapid look, a dart from the eyes, a faint pressure of her hand at parting—that was all the romance she was able to extract from it, so closely did Mrs. Clifford play her part as chaperon. But as the two young men and Montague Nevitt hurried off at last to catch their train back to town, the Colonel turned to Mrs. Clifford with a sigh of relief.
“Splendid young fellows, those,” he exclaimed, looking after them. “I’m not sorry I met them. Ought to have gone into a cavalry regiment early in life; what fine leaders they’d have made, to be sure, in a dash for the guns or a charge against a battery! But they seem to have done well for themselves in their own way: carved out their own fortunes, each after his fashion. Very plucky young fellows. One of them’s a painter, and one’s a journalist; and both of them are making their mark in their own world. I really admire them.”
And on the way to the station, that moment, Mr. Montague Nevitt, as he lit his cigarette, was saying to Cyril, with an approving smile, “Your Miss Clifford’s pretty.”
“Yes,” Cyril answered drily, “she’s not bad looking. She looked her best to-day. And she’s capital company.”
But Guy broke out unabashed into a sudden burst of speech.
“Not bad looking!” he cried contemptuously. “Is that all you have to say of her? And you a painter, too! Why, she’s beautiful! She’s charming! If Cyril was shut up in a tunnel with HER—-”
He broke off suddenly.
And for the rest of the way home he spoke but seldom. It was all too true. The two Warings were cast in the self-same mould. What attracted one, it was clear, no less surely and certainly attracted the other.
As they went to their separate rooms in Staple Inn that night, Guy paused for a moment, candle in hand, by his door, and looked straight at Cyril.
“You needn’t fear ME,” he said, in a very low tone. “She’s yours. You found her. I wouldn’t be mean enough for a minute to interfere with your find. But I’m not surprised at you. I would do the same myself, if I could have seen her first. I won’t see her again. I couldn’t stand it. She’s too beautiful to see and not to fall in love with.”
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