. . Lord Antony Dewhurst, one of the sons
of the Duke of Exeter, was in those days a very perfect type of a young
English gentleman—tall, well set-up, broad of shoulders and merry of face,
his laughter rang loudly wherever he went. A good sportsman, a lively
companion, a courteous, well-bred man of the world, with not too much
brains to spoil his temper, he was a universal favourite in London drawing-rooms
or in the coffee-rooms of village inns. At the "Fisherman's Rest"
everyone knew him—for he was fond of a trip across to France, and always
spent a night under worthy Mr. Jellyband's roof on his way there or back.
.
. He nodded to Waite, Pitkin and the others as he at last released
Sally's waist, and crossed over to the hearth to warm and dry himself:
as he did so, he cast a quick, somewhat suspicious glance at the two strangers,
who had quietly resumed their game of dominoes, and for a moment a look
of deep earnestness, even of anxiety, clouded his jovial young face.
.
. But only for a moment; the next he had turned to Mr. Hempseed,
who was respectfully touching his forelock.
.
. "Well, Mr. Hempseed, and how is the fruit?"
