“N-no. He’s sure to be back though, soon. But, I say, you’d better apply to Olive for information on that score.”
The girl shook her golden head sadly.
“Eusty, can you keep a secret? Because, if you can—I’ll tell you one. Well then, I think there’s something wrong—in the first place, from odds and ends I’ve heard out of doors, in the next—er—well—one needn’t look far from home. And dad had a letter from Mr Dorrien this morning, and how awfully quiet he was all breakfast time?”
“There was a deuce of a row between Dorrien and his cantankerous old reprobate of an ancestor—he let out as much as that to me,” said Eustace. “Poor old chap—I hope he’ll turn up again soon.”
“So do I,” echoed the girl. “We don’t see many nice people here—at least not nice men—and he always was such fun.”
“Rather. Especially when you got him quietly over a weed. The quaint, dry sentiments of the fellow were enough to make a cat perish with laughter. Poor old Dorrien! I hope we shall soon have him back as jolly as ever. Hallo!—By George, there’s that rascal Johnston himself. Seedy looking cad with him—perhaps an attorney.”
They peered through the thick foliage of the arbour, and approaching from the other end of the gravel walk was the Cranston gardener and his companion, whom a servant was apparently directing towards their retreat.
“By Jove!” chuckled Eustace. “Now for some fun. Tell you what, Sophie. I’ll read them Dorrien’s postscript.”
“Better not,” objected his more prudent sister. “No, dear, don’t. There’d only be a row, and I’m so frightened of rows.”
“Pooh! I’d chuck the pair of ’em through the hedge.”