"She must be, or she wouldn't have asked you to call upon her," interrupted the astute Mr. Pomfret.
"Quite so, I perfectly agree. But upon my soul, Jack, she has the most perfect manners. She does these sort of things in such a way that you cease to wonder why she does them."
"I understand." Mr. Pomfret looked very wise. "There's a wonderful fascination about the girl. She radiates it, even when you pass her in the street. By Gad, there's not a young woman in Blankfield who can hold a candle to her. Well, Hughie, what are you going to do about the invitation?"
"I'm in two minds, old man, to go or stay away. There's the brother, you see."
"There's the brother," repeated Mr. Pomfret, "and a dashed disappointing sort of a brother, too. If it had only been a mother, or a maiden aunt! what a priceless opportunity! And yet it seems a bit too good to be lost."
"But the brother, what about him?" Hugh insisted.
"The brother is, of course, a stumbling-block. You can't ask him to Mess. 'Old Fireworks' will stand more from you than anybody, but he would never stand Burton. He would be calling him 'Your Grace' or 'Your worship' or something."
"Old Fireworks," it may be explained, was the nickname of the respected Colonel of the gallant Twenty-fifth Lancers. It had been conferred upon him, on account of his explosive temper. He was also a rigid disciplinarian.
"I shall not go," said Hugh after a brief pause.
Mr. Pomfret was thinking deeply. He pulled at his big cigar in a meditative fashion. Then at length, out of his wisdom, he spoke:
"Let us reason this out, my well-beloved friend. A very pretty girl asks you to go and see her, she is unfortunately hampered by an undesirable brother. You accept their hospitality, but you know he is not a man you can ask to Mess. But you can take him to an hotel, and feed him up there. Tell him the Colonel's kicked up rough about guests, any lie you like, to save his _amour propre_."
"A good idea, Jack. Have you anything more to say? Don't forget that if I go to Rosemount, the news will be all over Blankfield in five minutes."
Mr. Pomfret snapped his fingers. "Who cares a fig for the Blankfield people? Everybody knows, or ought to know, that a soldier loves and rides away. And the Blankfield girls are dull enough, Heaven knows, I wouldn't give a thought to them."