“I hope Agincourt has not got any bad tidings,” said Sir William; “he seems agitated and uneasy.”
“I saw his guardian's name—Sommerville—on the envelope,” said Mrs. Morris. “It is, probably, one of those pleasant epistles which wards receive quarterly to remind them that even minors have miseries.”
The meal did not recover its pleasant tone after this little incident, and soon after they all scattered through the house and the grounds, Mrs. Morris setting out for her usual woodland walk, which she took each morning. A half-glance the boy had given her as he quitted the room at breakfast-time, induced her to believe that he wanted to consult her about his letter, and so, as she entered the shrubbery, she was not surprised to find Lord Agincourt there before her.
“I was just wishing it might be your footstep I heard on the gravel,” said he, joining her. “May I keep you company?”
“To be sure, provided you don't make love to me, which I never permit in the forenoon.”
“Oh, I have other thoughts in my head,” said he, sighing drearily; “and you are the very one to advise me what to do. Not, indeed, that I have any choice about that, only how to do it, that's the question.”
“When one has the road marked out, it's never very hard to decide on the mode of the journey,” said she. “Tell me what your troubles are.”
“Troubles you may well call them,” said he, with a deeper sigh. “There, read that—if you can read it—for the old Earl does not grow more legible by being older.”