“At home,” said Robarts; “at least I presume so.”
“At Framley or at Barchester? I believe he was in residence at Barchester not long since.”
“He’s at Framley now, I know. I got a letter only yesterday from his wife, with a commission. He was there, and Lord Lufton had just left.”
“Yes; Lufton was down. He started for Norway this morning. I want to see your brother. You have not heard from him yourself, have you?”
“No; not lately. Mark is a bad correspondent. He would not do at all for a private secretary.”
“At any rate, not to Harold Smith. But you are sure I should not catch him at Barchester?”
“Send down by telegraph, and he would meet you.”
“I don’t want to do that. A telegraph message makes such a fuss in the country, frightening people’s wives, and setting all the horses about the place galloping.”
“What is it about?”
“Nothing of any great consequence. I didn’t know whether he might have told you. I’ll write down by to-night’s post, and then he can meet me at Barchester to-morrow. Or do you write. There’s nothing I hate so much as letter-writing;—just tell him that I called, and that I shall be much obliged if he can meet me at the Dragon of Wantly—say at two to-morrow. I will go down by the express.”