'My dear Dick, how ill you look! Why didn't you write? Have you had any dinner?'
'No, auntie,' said he, kissing her. 'Just order up something cold, will you? I want to run up to Gates this evening. I won't wait for anything to be cooked.'
Miss Letitia suppressed her curiosity as to what could be taking Dick to his father's solicitor at this time of night, and hurried off to see about the meal herself. While he was busy with the cold beef and pickles he told her briefly that he had run down on business, which had been rather worrying lately.
'That accounts,' said the good lady, 'for your looking so poorly. I hope you've not been keeping bad hours.'
'Not I!' said Dick, as he drew the cork of a bottle of stout. 'Nor yet bad company, aunt—don't you think it.'
'And how is Roland?' she asked, at last; but at the same minute Dick pushed his chair back, and rose.
'I'm off to Gates now,' he said. 'I shall be back some time to-night. And I say, auntie, have my father's room got ready for me. I should like to sleep there.'
When he had put on hat and great coat, he put his head in again at the room door.
'After all, I think I'll have my own room.'