“I think you’re highly specialised too,” said Stabb. “But you’d better keep quiet and see it through, you know. There may be some fun—it will serve to amuse the Archdeacon when you write.” Wilbraham’s father was a highly-esteemed dignitary of the order mentioned.
Lynborough came out again, smoking a cigar. His manner was noticeably more alert: his brow was unclouded, his whole mien tranquil and placid.
“I’ve put it all right,” he observed. “I’ve written her a civil letter. Will you men bathe to-morrow?”
They both assented to the proposition.
“Very well. We’ll start at eight. We may as well walk. By Beach Path it’s only about half-a-mile.”
“But the path’s stopped, Ambrose,” Stabb objected.
“I’ve asked her to have the obstruction removed before eight o’clock,” Lynborough explained.
“If it isn’t?” asked Roger Wilbraham.
“We have hands,” answered Lynborough, looking at his own very small ones.
“Wilbraham wants to know why you don’t go to law, Ambrose.”