"Why doesn't my father come in? He is not often so late. However, there is not enough fog to hinder anybody; so I dare say he has some good reason."
She had hardly settled down to her book before the door was whisked open.
"Beg pardon, Miss; I thought your Pa was at home," Mrs. Stirring exclaimed. "Mr. Claughton wants to see the Colonel."
"My father will be in directly," said Dorothea; while, "Which Mr. Claughton?" flashed through her mind.
One candle does not make a room light, and for a moment she was in uncertainty; but before the newcomer's features were discernible, she knew his walk. "How do you do? I am expecting my father every moment," she said. "Will you sit down? He cannot be long now."
"Thanks." And Edred took a seat.
He looked pale, Dorothea thought, and his air was alike preoccupied and depressed.
"We have not seen you for a long while. Hardly since the summer."
"No; I have been remiss, I know. There has been so much to do, especially since my holiday."
"You were away all October, were you not? But you don't seem much the better for your month's rest," said Dorothea, suddenly conscious that her old shyness of Edred existed no longer. She could hardly have told why. He had perhaps never been less cordial in manner; yet she had never felt less afraid of him. It occurred to her mind that here was an opportunity to find out more about the Erskines of Craye—about Dolly, in particular. Why not? If she could ask questions of Mervyn, what should keep her from putting queries to Edred?