Harvey ignored this.
"Then you will not even ask if he would like to see Mr. Pennant?"
"Now? No; it is half-past nine. I shall see how he is in the morning, of course. Will you read prayers to-night, as he cannot?"
She did not speak curtly. Voice and manner were always soft and gentle, yet Harvey knew that every intonation meant displeasure.
"I have no objection, if it is a matter of reading only."
"Yes; we always have a short psalm on Sunday, and I will show you the prayer that my grandfather would use."
Hermione seated herself with a book, and little more passed between the two until the bell sounded and they went to the library. It was the first time within Hermione's recollections that she had ever been there for this purpose without her grandfather. His absence gave her a desolate feeling. She wished she had kissed him more tenderly, had asked more anxiously after his condition. Mr. Dalrymple was an old man, and not given to unimportant ailments. What if anything at all serious were impending? Might it not even now be best to send for Mr. Pennant, and ask him to look in for five minutes, just to see that nothing was really wrong? Mr. Pennant was so kind, he would not object, even should the errand prove to have been unnecessary. But, on the other hand, it was getting late, and most likely there was no need, and Mr. Dalrymple would dislike a fuss; and, besides—besides— why should Harvey manage things? He had behaved so ill—had forfeited all right to interfere. No, she would wait till the morning, and then certainly Mr. Pennant should be summoned, if Mr. Dalrymple were not better.
Hermione wore a reverent manner, but she heard not one word of the psalm which Harvey read, or of the prayer which followed.
After that they went to bed.
A soft rapping at Harvey's door roused him next morning from comfortable slumbers.