“Mr Edgar can’t want the flowers to-day. It can’t matter when you get them—if you have them ready for him to-morrow morning. Now don’t make difficulties, Wyn, you get idle with going after flowers and dawdling about.”
Wyn rushed out of doors in despair. There was nothing for it but to go at once to the ash-tree in the hope that Mr Alwyn might be there before his time, and if he did not appear to write a message on a bit of paper and leave it where he could find it. Alwyn, however, impatient for the meeting, was already sitting under the ash-tree on the look-out for his brother, and started up in dismay as Wyn appeared alone.
“Please, sir, Mr Edgar’s ill to-day. He can’t come. I think he meant me to come and tell you so.”
“Ill? What is the matter with him? What did he say?”
“Please, sir, I expect it’s only one of his headaches, and I only got a message, but I thought I’d better come and tell you.”
“Is he likely to be able to come to-morrow?”
“No, sir, I don’t expect so. He often doesn’t come out for a long time when he takes to having his headaches, except just to lie on the terrace.”
“But you can see him?”
“Yes, sir, when he’s a bit better. He likes to have me come and tell him about the ducks and the peacocks and all the creatures, and sometimes I take him the dogs to look at.”
“My poor boy! Is that all he has to amuse him?” murmured Alwyn, half to himself.