"If you like to go into the drawing-room, I'm sure they will all be very glad to see you."
But Peregrine declared that he would not do this on any account. "You do not know, Lady Staveley, what a fool I should make myself. It would be all over with me then."
"You should be more moderate in your feelings, Mr. Orme."
"It's all very well saying that; but you wouldn't be moderate if Noningsby were on fire, or if you thought the judge was going to die."
"Good gracious, Mr. Orme!"
"It's the same sort of thing to me, I can tell you. A man can't be moderate when he feels that he should like to break his own neck. I declare I almost tried to do it to-day."
"Oh, Mr. Orme!"
"Well; I did. But don't suppose I say that as a sort of threat. I'm safe enough to live for the next sixty years. It's only the happy people and those that are some good in the world that die. Good-bye, Lady Staveley. I'll come back next Christmas;—that is if it isn't all settled before then; but I know it will be no good." Then he got on his horse and rode very slowly home, along the high road to The Cleeve.
Lady Staveley did not go in among the other ladies till luncheon was announced, and when she did so, she said no word about her visitor. Nevertheless it was known by them all that Peregrine Orme had been there. "Ah, that's Mr. Orme's roan-coloured horse," Sophia Furnival had said, getting up and thrusting her face close to the drawing-room window. It was barely possible to see a portion of the road from the drawing-room; but Sophia's eyes had been sharp enough to see that portion.
"A groom has probably come over with a note," said Mrs. Arbuthnot.