“How can you bear it?” said the girl.
“Easily enough,” said Bagot simply. “I couldn’t let the place down.”
“You speak as if it were a friend.”
“It’s been my people’s home for nearly eight hundred years.”
The girl turned to the door.
“You’re faithful,” she said.
Willoughby shrugged his shoulders.
“Time ties up the affections,” he said. Then, “I’m so glad you came back. If I were still the owner, I should ask you to tea.”
“And, if I was not a companion, I should accept.” Willoughby stared. “As it is, my mistress’ll light into me for being so long. You see,” she continued, smiling, “we’re fellow bondsmen.” She put out a little hand. “And now good-bye. I think she likes this part, and, if I can persuade her to stay at Holy Brush, I’ll call at your lodge one evening and ask for some tea. You’re a Bagot, of course.”
“I was,” corrected Willoughby. “But that—that’s over, like the rest. I’m known as Worcester now.”