“We’ve never let the timber go, my boy.”
Yes, he remembered that his father had paid his, St. Quentin’s, debts by care and economy, but without sacrificing any of the splendid trees, which were the pride of the county. “We’ve never let the timber go, my boy.” He turned his head with an impatient sigh and flung the paper down again, staring from the rain-washed window gloomily.
As he looked aimlessly enough, something crossed his line of vision that made him start into a sudden interest and life.
Two ladies, wrapped in waterproofs and wrestling with refractory umbrellas, passed beneath his window, carrying a large basket. In spite of sleet and rain they walked fast as though in a hurry, and quickly disappeared amid the trees, though not before Sydney’s cousin had recognised the scarlet tam-o’-shanter and long tail of refractory brown hair, blown every way.
“What on earth can the child be thinking of to go out on such an afternoon!” St. Quentin said to himself, and he rang sharply for Dickson.
“Where has Miss Lisle gone?”
“I will enquire, my lord.”
The servant vanished, but returned in a few minutes with the information—“Miss Lisle and Miss Osric have gone down to the village, my lord. Miss Lisle holds a sewing meeting for the village women on two afternoons a week, my lord.”
St. Quentin considered this information, then enquired, “Is Lady Frederica in?”