“And the other?”
“Wasn’t.”
“Did you note the name?” I asked, interested.
“Yes; here it is.” She handed me a slip of paper.
I read it: “Reginald Nettlecraft, Esq., 427, Staples Inn, London.”
“What, Reggie Nettlecraft!” I cried, amused. “Why, he was a very little boy at Charterhouse when I was a big one; he afterwards went to Oxford, and got sent down from Christ Church for the part he took in burning a Greek bust in Tom Quad—an antique Greek bust—after a bump supper.”
“Just the sort of man I should have expected,” Hilda answered, with a suppressed smile. “I have a sort of inkling that Miss Montague likes him best; he is nearer her type; but she thinks Cecil Holsworthy the better match. Has Mr. Nettlecraft money?”
“Not a penny, I should say. An allowance from his father, perhaps, who is a Lincolnshire parson; but otherwise, nothing.”
“Then, in my opinion, the young lady is playing for Mr. Holsworthy’s money; failing which, she will decline upon Mr. Nettlecraft’s heart.”
We talked it all over. In the end I said abruptly: “Nurse Wade, you have seen Miss Montague, or whatever she calls herself. I have not. I won’t condemn her unheard. I have half a mind to run down one day next week to Scarborough and have a look at her.”
“Do. That will suffice. You can judge then for yourself whether or not I am mistaken.”
I went; and what is more, I heard Miss Sissie sing at her hall—a pretty domestic song, most childish and charming. She impressed me not unfavourably, in spite of what Hilda said. Her peach-blossom cheek might have been art, but looked like nature. She had an open face, a baby smile and there was a frank girlishness about her dress and manner that took my fancy. “After all,” I thought to myself, “even Hilda Wade is fallible.”
So that evening, when her “turn” was over, I made up my mind to go round and call upon her. I had told Cecil Holsworthy my intentions beforehand, and it rather shocked him. He was too much of a gentleman to wish to spy upon the girl he had promised to marry. However, in my case, there need be no such scruples. I found the house and asked for Miss Montague. As I mounted the stairs to the drawing-room floor, I heard a sound of voices—the murmur of laughter; idiotic guffaws, suppressed giggles, the masculine and feminine varieties of tomfoolery.
“You’d make a splendid woman of business, you would!” a young man was saying. I gathered from his drawl that he belonged to that sub-species of the human race which is known as the Chappie.
“Wouldn’t I just?” a girl’s voice answered, tittering. I recognised it as Sissie’s. “You ought to see me at it! Why, my brother set up a place once for mending bicycles; and I used to stand about at the door, as if I had just returned from a ride; and when fellows came in, with a nut loose or something, I’d begin talking with them while Bertie tightened it. Then, when they weren’t looking, I’d dab the business end of a darning-needle, so, just plump into their tires; and of course, as soon as they went off, they were back again in a minute to get a puncture mended! I call that business.”
A roar of laughter greeted the recital of this brilliant incident in a commercial career. As it subsided, I entered. There were two men in the room, besides Miss Montague and her mother, and a second young lady.