“Owen tells me that he is shortly going to London, and I shall make a point of asking him to see our dear fellow and bring me a full report,” said the Canon.
He proffered his request shortly afterwards to Quentillian, by whom it was received with no enthusiasm whatever.
“Will Adrian like it?” he enquired, although fully conscious that Adrian would not.
“Aye, that he will,” said the Canon with emphasis. “It is just because we feel you to be so thoroughly one of ourselves, dear Owen, that I am asking you to act the elder brother’s part that would be David’s, were he at home.”
Lucilla could sympathize in the entire absence of elation with which Quentillian took his departure, under the new honour thus thrust upon him.
There was a certain rueful amusement under his discomfiture when he left St. Gwenllian.
On his return, Lucilla discovered instantly that any lurking amusement had been stifled under a perfectly real anxiety.
“What is it?” she almost involuntarily asked, as she mechanically made her preparations at the tea-table for the Canon’s entrance.
“I’m afraid I have news that will distress you all, about Adrian.”
“Is he ill?” said Flora.