be staying with May Brendonfor the night, but she is not the reason of your visit. You are goingto meet that wretched girl."
Mary could never bring herself to tell a lie. She had already admittedshe had made the acquaintance of Isobel Clandon, and had taken a greatliking to her.
"To tell the truth, I am. Guy is giving a dinner to-night, in order tobid her farewell. It is only right he should have the support of somemember of his family."
"You deliberately go against my wishes," thundered her father, in hismost irate tones.
"In this instance, I fear I must," replied his daughter very quietly andfirmly. "I love you very dearly, but I love Guy too. He has chosen forhimself, and in my opinion he has chosen wisely."
"I love Guy too," said the Earl in a less aggressive tone. "I wouldlike also to see him happy. But a man in his position must marryaccording to the traditions of his family. You are a weaksentimentalist, Mary."
A rather sad smile crept over the sweet face.
"Perhaps I am, too much for my own peace of mind. But, what I do feelstrongly is this--you have no right to dictate to Guy in this matter.He is a second son, he is independent of you. With Ticehurst, it may bedifferent. He has to transmit the family honours, to maintain thefamily traditions as you call them. In his case, interference may bejustifiable. In Guy's case, I say emphatically not." The Earl began tosplutter again. "My word, the world is coming to something. You talkas if a father had no right, no authority over his children. Look whatI have done for him. I wrung this appointment from Greatorex, with myown personal influence."
Lady Mary laid a light, cool kiss upon his inflamed cheek.
"Dearest father, do try and be just for once. You did not get thisappointment solely for Guy's benefit. You know you don't care a strawwhether he succeeds in his profession. Your real motive was to drivehim out of England, so that he should be separated from Isobel Clandon."
This was too much for Lord Saxham. He burst into volcanic language,inveighing against ungrateful sons and undutiful daughters, and stampedfrom the room in a blind rage.
Lady Mary smiled a little when he left. How many of these domesticstorms had she witnessed! Her father would give way in the end. Butthere would be a long period of waiting. She got into the car, anddrove to the railway station.
The dinner-party was a great success, even if it was slightly overcastwith the sadness of farewell. Two people alone can be quite comfortablysad; there is a luxury in woe. But melancholy cannot be permanentlymaintained amongst four persons. The lovers would not see each otherfor some time, but, as Mary cheerfully reminded them, Madrid was notquite as far as the Antipodes, and they could write to each other everyday, if they wished.
Half-way through the meal, two men entered and took their seats at asmall adjoining table; they were both in evening dress. One was a tall,slim Englishman of the well-groomed type. His companion was short andswarthy, evidently a foreigner.
Isobel was the first to observe them. She leaned across the table, andaddressed the General in a low voice.
"Maurice has just come in, father. Just there, on your left, with aforeign-looking man."
The General looked in the direction indicated, and caught the eye of thetall young man, who rose, and advanced hesitatingly to their table.
He shook hands with Isobel and her father. The General effected a hastyintroduction.
"My nephew, Mr Farquhar, Lady Mary Rossett, Mr Rossett."
Lady Mary bowed. Guy half rose and bowed. He felt a little bitchurlish. He was of a very jealous disposition. He fancied Isobel'sreception of her cousin was perhaps a little too cordial. Her smile wasvery welcoming, as she murmured, "Fancy meeting you here, Maurice."
Farquhar looked at the young diplomatist steadily, as if he were tryingto recall a memory. Then he recollected.
"Rossett, Guy Rossett, of course, I remember you now perfectly. Youwere with me at Harrow for one term. You came into Brogden's House justas I was leaving."
And then Guy remembered too. "Of course, I recollect now. I thoughtyour face was familiar to me. You were the head of the house, and I wasyour fag. A graceless little cub, I fancy."
Farquhar laughed genially. "No, I fancy you were an awful decent littlechap while I was there. I can't vouch for you after my restraininginfluence was removed."
There was a little more conversation, and then Mr Farquhar returned tohis foreign friend.
"Who the deuce has he got with him?" growled the General, almost underhis breath. "Maurice is an awfully clever fellow, and they say is oneof the most rising members of the junior bar, but he is awfully fond ofBohemian society. That long-haired chap he has got with him. Well, helooks like an anarchist."
Guy Rossett laughed. "I fancy I know who he is, General; in the ForeignOffice, like your nephew, we get to know some queer people. He is aSpaniard by birth, but English by adoption. He is a well-knownjournalist in Fleet Street. But he is by no means an anarchist; he isdead against them."
The General ruminated. He was the most insular of insular Britons. Hehated all persons of other nations. It annoyed him that his nephewshould be in the company of this long-haired foreigner.
"It is time this old country of ours closed its doors to this kind ofgentry," he said, in a decided voice, as he drained his glass ofchampagne.
Lady Mary smiled. How very much he resembled her own father. The sameobstinate views, with, at bottom, the same kind heart.
The next morning, the little party of three saw the young diplomatistoff at the station. Guy held his sweetheart very close when he gave herhis farewell kiss.
"I say, dearest, you will write every day, won't you?"
And Isobel nodded her dark head.
"Of course, dear, pages and pages."
"And I say, that good-looking cousin of yours we met last night! He hasnever made love to you, has he?"
Isobel laughed gaily. "Dear old Maurice! Why he used to carry me aboutwhen I was a baby. And dad and I are awfully fond of him. He is just abig, dear elder brother."
"I don't quite know that I like a big, dear elder brother, when hehappens to be a cousin," replied Guy, a little grimly.
Isobel smiled her most delightful smile.
"Oh, Guy, I believe you are really jealous, and of poor old Maurice, ofall people. My dear boy, he only lives for his work; he is a barrister,you know, and is made up of parchment."
"He looked very human when he shook hands with you," remarked Guy drily."I fancy there's not much parchment where you are concerned."
"Silly boy, to even think of such things. And what about me, when youget to Madrid? I am told the Spanish ladies are very fascinating. Whatchance shall I have against them."
So she turned the tables on Guy, and he had to defend himself againstdisloyalty in the future.
Then the train steamed off. With a hearty handshake from the General,with the kisses of his sweetheart and sister warm upon his lips and hischeeks, Guy Rossett set out on his journey to Spain. Little could heforesee the adventures that were in store for him.
CHAPTER FOUR.
"And you think mischief is brewing, eh?"
The speaker was Maurice Farquhar. The man he addressed was AndresMoreno, the black-browed Spaniard who had dined with him on the previousevening at the restaurant where they had met Guy Rossett and his party.
Maurice, a member of the junior bar, with a daily increasing practice,rented a charming suite of rooms in one of the most cloistered courts ofthe Temple. Certainly, this suite was on the top floor, and it was astiff climb up those stairs. But Maurice was young and healthy, and theascent of those few steep stairs did not trouble him in the least.
Apart from his own special legal business, which absorbed his bestfaculties, he was a man of many interests. During the lean years, whenhe had waited for briefs, he had supplemented his modest patrimony byjournalism. He became a somewhat well-known figure in Fleet Street,specialising more or less upon foreign politics.
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Then, when the briefs began to flow in, he had gradually droppedjournalism. Now and again, at the earnest request of a persistenteditor, he would write an article or a letter on some burning question,in which he could display his particular knowledge of affairs.
In those old journalistic days, happy, careless days, when a dinner atthe old "Cheshire Cheese" was accounted something of a luxury, when henever entered the portals of the Ritz or Carlton, save as the guest ofsome rich friend or relation, he had struck up a great comradeship withAndres Moreno, son of a Spanish father and an English mother, an adroitand clever journalist, who could turn his hand to anything.
Nothing came amiss to Moreno; he was the handy man of journalism. Hecould write a most flamboyant description of a fashionable bazaar. Hecould, in a sufficiently well-paid article, penetrate the subtle schemesof