spoke quite sharply in his plain displeasure and surprise.
"I said I couldn't tell you, Bob. I suppose it was a general association of ideas. He had his hat on, for one thing, when I saw him first; and it was far too large for him, and crammed down almost to those dreadful ears! I never saw any boy outside a stable-yard wear his hat like that. Then your hunting was the one thing that seemed to interest him in the least. And I certainly thought he called a horse a 'hoss'!"
"So he put you in mind of a stable-boy, did he?"
"Well, not exactly at the time, but he really does the more I think about him."
"That's very clever of you, Milly—because it's just what he is!"
Heriot's open windows were flush with the street, and passing footfalls sounded loud in his room; but at the moment there were none; and a clock ticked officiously on the chimneypiece while the man with his back to it met his sister's eyes.
"Of course you don't mean it literally?"
"Literally."
"I thought his grandfather was a country parson?"
"A rural dean, my dear; but the boy's father was a coachman, and the boy himself was brought up in the stables until six months ago."
"The father's dead, then?"
"He died in the spring. His wife has been dead fourteen years. It's a very old story. She ran away with the groom."
"But her people have taken an interest in the boy?"
"Never set eyes on him till his father died."
"Then how can he know enough to come here?"
Heriot smiled as he pulled at his pipe. He had the
