“Because your father wished for a change. I told you truth, you see, when I said that your departure would be good for him, and wean him from his seclusion.”
“Why does he not come to see me?” asked Una.
“He is coming, my dear Una,” said Stephen. “But at present he is very much engaged, and quite satisfied with my favorable report of your health and happiness. But come, I must not make you homesick. Were you not playing when I came in?”
Una flushed.
“Jack—Mr. Newcombe—was playing,” she said; “I was singing.”
“Pray don’t let me interrupt you,” said Stephen, genially, “or I shall feel like an intruder, and walk off again. Jack, go on with your music, my dear fellow.”
But Jack declined promptly, though politely.
“I’m afraid I must be off,” he said, looking at his watch, and then at Una, wistfully.
“Not yet,” said Stephen. “I have a whole budget of news to tell you. I dare say you wonder why I haven’t been up before this; but there was so much to do—a surprising deal.”
Jack nodded curtly. He certainly didn’t want to finish up this particular evening by hearing Stephen’s talk of the Hurst.