Sir Hilton's Sin. Fenn George Manville

it, man! Hold your tongue! Be off!”

      At that moment there were steps on the gravel, and directly after a peal arose from the door-bell.

      “Go and see who that is, sir, and never mention anything connected with the Turf again. It’s dead to me, and I’m dead to it,” he muttered, as the man left the room, giving place to Jane, who hurried in with covered dishes upon a tray.

      “Did you see who that was, Jane?”

      “No, Sir Hilton. Some gentleman on horseback. His horse is hooked on one side of the gate.”

      “Who the deuce can it be?”

      “Dr Granton, sir,” said the groom, coming to the door.

      “Oh! Where is he?”

      “Study, sir.”

      “Bring him in here.”

      Sir Hilton looked quite transformed. There was a bright, alert look in his erstwhile dull eyes, and he seemed to pull himself together as he started actively from his chair, and made as if to hurry after his groom.

      But he was too late, for the door reopened, and Mark showed in a handsome, dark, military-looking man of about five-and-thirty, who marched in, hunting-crop in hand, spurs jingling faintly at his heels, and dressed in faultless taste as a horseman.

      “My dear old Jack!”

      “Hilt, old boy!”

      “This is a surprise. Here, Jane, another cover; the doctor will breakfast with me.”

      “My dear fellow, I breakfasted at eight.”

      “Never mind; have an eleven’s. Mouthful of corn then never hurt anyone. A chair here, Mark. That will do, my man.”

      Mark backed out, with the half-grin, which had sprung up on seeing his master’s animation, dying out, and shaking his head, while the visitor turned the chair placed for him back to the table and bestrode it as if it were a horse.

      “Whatever brings you down into this dismal region?”

      “Dismal, eh?” said the visitor, glancing round, and then out of the window. “Races.”

      “Humph!” ejaculated the baronet. “Yes; I heard they were to-day.”

      “You heard? Aren’t you coming?”

      “No, no. I’ve dropped all that sort of thing now.”

      “Oh, yes, I forgot; and my manners, too. How is her ladyship?”

      “Oh, well – very well, Jack,” said Sir Hilton, in a mournful way.

      “That’s right, old chap. Well, trot her out.”

      Sir Hilton frowned.

      “I beg your pardon, old man. Presuming on old brotherly acquaintance. I shall be glad to see her, though.”

      “Of course, my dear boy; but the fact is, she is out.”

      “She is? Hang it all, then, I’ve come at the right time. Have a day off with me at Tilborough, and we’ll dine afterwards at the hotel. We can get a snack of something.”

      “No, no; you misunderstand me. My wife is only having a morning drive in the pony chaise. A little business in the village.”

      “Oh, I see; Lady Bountiful – district visiting – buying curtsies of the old women, and that sort of thing.”

      “Yes – er – exactly.”

      “Ah! I’ve heard that Lady Lisle does a deal in that way. Takes the chair at charity meetings, eh? Primrose Dame, too?”

      “Who told you that?”

      “Told me? Let’s see. Oh, it was Lady Tilborough.”

      The conversation ceased for a minute or two while Jane entered with a tray, busied herself, and then departed, leaving the visitor quite ready to show that his eight o’clock breakfast was a thing of the past.

      “I say, though,” he exclaimed, with his mouth half full, “I didn’t mean this. I’ve left my horse hitched on to the gate.”

      Sir Hilton rose, stepped to the window, and returned.

      “Not there. Mark would see to it, of course, and give it a feed in the stables.”

      “That’s all right, then. Yes, Lady Tilborough was talking about you the other day.”

      “Was she? What did she say?”

      “Oh, not much. Only that it was a pity you had given up hunting and the Turf.”

      The baronet sighed – almost groaned. “Anything else?”

      “Well – er – no-o-o-o. Oh, yes; a little bit of badinage.”

      “Eh? What about? Nothing spiteful? No, she wouldn’t. She’s a dear good creature, bless her!”

      “Good boy! So she is – bless her!”

      “Ah! I once thought when the old man died, that – ”

      “Oh, did you? Well, you didn’t, and you’ve married well enough to satisfy any man.”

      Sir Hilton sighed, and his visitor looked at him out of the corner of his eye.

      “Come, old man, you don’t seem to care for your corn. You didn’t have a wet night?”

      “Hot coppers this morning? My dear boy, no! Why, I lead as quiet a life as a curate now.”

      “All the better for you.”

      Sir Hilton sighed again.

      “Then it’s true?” said the visitor, smiling.

      “What’s true? What have you been hearing? Did Lady Tilborough say – ”

      “Oh, nothing; only a bit of chaff about you.”

      “Tell me what the widow said.”

      “Oh, it was all good humouredly – a bit of her fun. You know what she is – wouldn’t hurt the feelings of a fly.”

      “Yes, yes, I know; but she has been laughing at me. She has – ”

      “Nonsense – nonsense! Don’t make your coat rough, old man. She only said it was a pity.”

      “What was a pity?”

      “That dear old Hilt should be ridden with his curb chain so tight – by George! I didn’t know how hungry I was.”

      “Yes,” said Sir Hilton, sadly; “the curb is a bit too tight sometimes, Jack; but someone means well, and she has a right to be a bit firm. I always was a fool over money matters.”

      “Nonsense, old fellow! You were a prince, only you were unlucky, and were obliged to make a clear up; but you’re all right again now.”

      “Yes,” said the baronet, “I’m all right again now.” But his voice sounded very doleful.

      “It was thirty thou’ a-year, wasn’t it – I mean, isn’t it?”

      Sir Hilton nodded.

      “She got the title and you got the tin. Quid pro quo!”

      Sir Hilton nodded again, and then made a desperate effort to turn the conversation back upon his friend.

      “Lady Lisle has always taken an interest in parish matters and the poor, and it pleases her. She would not, of course, like me to take an interest now in racing affairs.”

      “Of course not – of course not, my dear boy,” said the visitor, helping himself to the marmalade left by Sydney.

      “But what about you?”

      “Me? Oh, I’m doing capitally,” was the reply, rather thickly uttered.

      “Nonsense! I mean that affair. How do matters go with the widow?”

      “Hah!” sighed the visitor, laying down his knife.

      “Hallo! Not