Endacott sighed.
“I am full of prejudices,” he confessed. “The last twenty years of my life have been spent in abstractions, have passed like a dream, away from the world which counts, which one ought really never to lose sight of. I should be an ill-adviser to any one.—Go and play something.”
Claire disappeared into the house and soon the sound of her music drifted out in little ripples of melody through the perfumed stillness. Her uncle listened for some time without any sign of pleasure or the reverse. Then he rose to his feet and looked up across the roofs of the village, over the green slopes in the background, to where a few lights were slowly appearing from the windows of the Hall. Presently the music ceased and Claire stole out to him. She passed her arm through his.
“It is a very beautiful home that, Uncle,” she said softly. “Don’t you think it would be a sin to have it all broken up?”
“A better race might follow,” he muttered.
She shook her head.
“They belong,” she said gently.
He turned away with a little grunt and entered his study. For a few minutes Claire flitted round the garden. There was a nightingale singing somewhere in the distance to which she stopped to listen. Even the noises from the village, through the gathering twilight, became almost melodious. Presently she passed through the postern gate, strolled across the lane and entered the drawing-room of the Little House through the wide-flung windows. Madame lay stretched upon her couch, listless and weary. She welcomed Claire with only the ghost of a smile.
“Where have you been all day, child?” she asked.
“Enjoying myself, I am afraid,” was the remorseful reply. “Gregory came and fetched me and we went over to Cromer.”