“Thank you,” said Lucian. “I shall write, mother, and you know my address.”
“Take care of yourself, my dearest boy. If you would but have let me come with you.”
“I’d rather be alone. Good-bye,” said Lucian.
It was not pride, struggling to control emotion, it was simple incapacity to express, almost to feel, the blow that had come upon him.
Sylvester went to the station with him to meet the evening train, for Mrs Leigh’s satisfaction, and as they walked up and down the platform, waiting for it, Lucian said suddenly—
“Amethyst is very fond of the Rector and Miss Riddell, I hope they’ll go on being kind.”
“I am sure they will,” said Sylvester, starting at the name which had not yet had time to grow strange to Lucian’s lips. “And, Lucy, any time you send me a word, I’ll come to you.”
“Thanks,” said Lucian, “but I think I’d rather not have any one from here.”
“Well—I will write if—”
“No,” said Lucian, suddenly and abruptly, “I don’t want to hear.”