“It’s our early dinner, you know, Mr. Temple, but we can offer you a fair slice of mutton.”
John Temple accepted this invitation also, and then judiciously began talking to the farmer of his horses.
“My uncle has given me a good allowance,” he said, “and I want a good horse. Have you anything you think would suit me?”
Mr. Churchill, who was a man with a keen eye to a bargain, immediately led John away to inspect his stables and paddocks. And it ended by John buying a valuable riding-horse and the farmer feeling that he had done an excellent morning’s work. Then came the early dinner, at which May presided, looking in John’s eyes more lovely still from the light pallor of her smooth cheeks, and the faint violet rim round her beautiful eyes. The tragic affair of the morning was scarcely mentioned, but the meal was hardly over when a summons was served at the farm for May and her father both to attend the inquest on poor Elsie Wray’s body, which had to be held on the following morning.
Then some one came to see Mr. Churchill on business, and John Temple and May were left alone.
“Let us go into the garden for a little while,” he said.
So the two went out together and walked side by side on the trim gravel walks, between the blooming flower-beds, which were May’s especial care. May made some allusion to Elsie Wray’s death, but after a word or two on the subject John Temple changed the conversation.
“She probably committed suicide, poor girl,” he said; “her appearance indicated that she was a woman of strong and passionate emotions.”
“In any case it is so terribly sad.”