“Dad, Eustace is coming home next week,” remarked Margaret, looking up from a letter she had been reading.
“Is he? The rascal! it’s about time he did. Dorrien, you will have the dubious pleasure of making the acquaintance of my hopeful at the date just named. He has been away yachting with a friend, and by this time doubtless considers himself fully competent to take command of the Channel Fleet.”
Thus conversation flowed on, and at last Margaret rose. No, she would not be lonely, she said, in response to an intimation to that effect. She had more than enough to do to occupy all her time.
“Draw round the fire, Dorrien—fancy requiring one at this time of year,” said the rector, as the door closed upon his daughter. “Now to try and unearth some cigars,” diving into a chiffonier in the corner. “Ah! here we are. Light up. Oh, and we’ll put the decanters at the corner here, where we can reach them.”
Roland blew out a long puff of smoke, and lay back in easy content.
“I wish you’d tell me something, Dr Ingelow,” he said.
“And that?”
“Why, I want to know the true version of that ridiculous story attached to our family. You know—the ghost on The Skegs. You are sure to have it at your fingers’ ends.”
“Does not your father know it?”
“I believe he does, but he promptly shelves the topic if you moot it. And, you know, he isn’t the sort of man to get anything out of that he’s bent on keeping dark.”