“I shall have to start for Dublin to-morrow, Dinah,” said he, as he walked thoughtfully up and down the room. “I must have Withering's advice on these letters. There are very pressing matters to be thought of here, and I can take Major Stapylton's despatches with me. I am certain to hear of him somewhere.”
Miss Barrington turned her eyes full upon him, and watched him narrowly. She was a keen detector of motives, and she scanned her brother's face with no common keenness, and yet she could see nothing beyond the preoccupation she had often seen. There was no impatience, no anxiety. A shade more thoughtful, perhaps, and even that passed off, as he sat down to his tea, and asked Fifine what commissions she had for the capital.
“You will leave by the evening mail, I suppose?” said Miss Barrington.
“No, Dinah, night travelling wearies me. I will take the coach as it passes the gate to-morrow at five; this will bring me in time to catch Withering at his late dinner, and a pleasanter way to finish a day's travel no man need ask for.”
Nothing could be more easily spoken than these words, and Miss Dinah felt reassured by them, and left the room to give some orders about his journey.
“Fifine, darling,” said Barrington, after a pause, “do you like your life here?”
“Of course I do, grandpapa. How could I wish for one more happy?”
“But it is somewhat dull for one so young,—somewhat solitary for a fair, bright creature, who might reasonably enough care for pleasure and the world.”
“To me it is a round of gayety, grandpapa; so that I almost felt inclined yesterday to wish for some quiet davs with aunt and yourself,—some of those dreamy days like what we had in Germany.”
“I fear me much, darling, that I contribute but little to the pleasure. My head is so full of one care or another, I am but sorry company, Fifine.”