Mrs. Crosbie took up a letter and read aloud:
“We shall arrive at Chesterham by the twelve express from Euston, reaching the junction about six-thirty. Pray let somebody meet us.”
“I call that cool,” observed the young man shortly. “But I suppose Aunt Clara cannot do a thing for herself. However, it need not entail my going; she only says ‘somebody,’ and I am nobody.”
“Your father will expect his sister to be treated with respect,” was his mother’s icy reply.
“And I trust he will not be disappointed,” responded Stuart; “but to trudge to Chesterham in this heat will be enough to roast a fellow.”
“I have ordered the barouche,” Mrs. Crosbie told him. “Vane must lean back comfortably—she is so delicate.”
Stuart Crosbie buried his toe in the well-kept lawn and made no answer to this. His mother watched him keenly, though he was unaware of her scrutiny.
“Well?” she said at last.
“Well?” he replied, looking up.
“Stuart, I do not often express my wishes, but to-day I particularly desire you should go to Chesterham and meet your aunt and cousin.”