and after a few seconds more he handed it very innocently back to Mrs.
Dorothy, only remarking--

'Seriously, it _is_ very pretty, and _appropriate_.'

And Wylder, making no remark, helped himself to a cup of coffee, and then
to a glass of Curacoa, and then looked industriously at a Spanish quarto
of Don Quixote, and lastly walked over to me on the hearthrug.

'What the d-- has he come down here for? It can't be for money, or balls,
or play, and he has no honest business anywhere. Do you know?'

'Lake? Oh! I really can't tell; but he'll soon tire of country life. I
don't think he's much of a sportsman.'

'Ha, isn't he? I don't know anything about him almost; but I hate him.'

'Why should you, though? He's a very gentlemanlike fellow and your
cousin.'

'My cousin--the Devil's cousin--everyone's cousin. I don't know who's my
cousin, or who isn't; nor you don't, who've been for ten years over those
d--d papers; but I think he's the nastiest dog I ever met. I took a
dislike to him at first sight long ago, and that never happened me but I
was right.'

Wylder looked confoundedly angry and flustered, standing with his heels
on the edge of the rug, his hands in his pockets, jingling some silver
there, and glancing from under his red forehead sternly and unsteadily
across the room.