"His brother came over from Darlington to see him yesterday evening, you know."
"Yes. I just missed him."
The nurse gave a little bow as she moved up the road.
"Just going to the pillar-box," she explained. "Dreadful weather we're having!"
He left her, feeling that he had made a new acquaintance.
"She's in love with a parson, I bet," he said to himself. And he had to admit that she had charm--when off duty.
The news about Ingpen filled him with bright joy. Everything was going well. Hilda would soon be home; George's eyes were not seriously wrong; the awful funeral was over; and his friend was out of danger--marvellously restored to him. Then he thought of the will. He glanced about to see whether anybody of importance was observing him. There was nobody. The coaches were a hundred yards in front. He drew out the envelope containing the will, managed to extract the will from the envelope, and opened the document,--not very easily because he was holding his umbrella.
A small printed slip fluttered to the muddy pavement. He picked it up; it was a printed form of attestation clause, seemingly cut from Whitaker's Almanac:--"Signed by the testator (or testatrix as the case may be) in the presence of us, both present at the same time," etc.
"She's got that right, anyhow," he murmured.
Then, walking along, he read the will of Auntie Hamps. It was quickly spotted with raindrops.