“Oh bother!” said Lilian. “Yes, show him in, Blount, and tell Cook there will be one extra for luncheon. One cannot deny the neighbours,” she said resignedly to Malcolm, “and Lord Wareham rides several miles to call, but he always seems to arrive just in time for a meal so one must invite him to stay.” “Like Des Aldrich.” Malcolm noted with interest the pink rising in Lilian’s cheeks. “That was quite different. The captain is your friend and was expected. I wonder whether he will call again. Is your business with him finished?” “No, but I’ve arranged to meet him in Plymouth.” “Malcolm, he will think he is not welcome here! You must tell him...Oh, good morning, Lord Wareham.” The baron bowed over her hand, holding it, in Malcolm’s opinion, a trifle longer than was quite proper. He had met Wareham on a previous visit and had not greatly cared for him. A tall, broad-shouldered, handsome man of about forty, he seemed rather too conscious of his good looks.
