“What for?” cried Dolly, who had still not been “told.”
“Very well, sir. Which car will you have?”
“I think I’ll walk.”
“It’s a good half-mile,” said Charles, stepping into the garden. “The sun’s very hot for April. Shan’t I take you up, and then, perhaps, a little spin round by Tewin?”
“You go on as if I didn’t know my own mind,” said Mr. Wilcox fretfully. Charles hardened his mouth. “You young fellows’ one idea is to get into a motor. I tell you, I want to walk: I’m very fond of walking.”
“Oh, all right; I’m about the house if you want me for anything. I thought of not going up to the office today, if that is your wish.”
“It is, indeed, my boy,” said Mr. Wilcox, and laid a hand on his sleeve.
Charles did not like it; he was uneasy about his father, who did not seem himself this morning. There was a petulant touch about him—more like a woman. Could it be that he was growing old? The Wilcoxes were not lacking in affection; they had it royally, but they did not know how to use it. It was the talent in the napkin, and, for a warm-hearted man, Charles had conveyed very little joy. As he watched his father shuffling up the road, he had a vague regret—a wish that something had been different somewhere—a wish (though he did not express it thus) that he had been taught to say “I” in his youth. He meant to make up for Margaret’s defection, but knew that his father had been very happy with her until yesterday. How had she done it? By some dishonest trick, no doubt—but how?
Mr. Wilcox reappeared at eleven, looking very tired. There was to be an inquest on Leonard’s’ body tomorrow, and the police required his son to attend.
“I expected that,” said Charles. “I shall naturally be the most important witness there.”