Wingrave shrugged his shoulders.
“Mr. Pengarth,” he said, “no two men are born alike into this world. Some are blessed with a contented mind, some are wanderers by destiny. You will forgive me if I do not discuss the matter with you more fully. My journey, wherever and whatever it is, is inevitable.”
Mr. Pengarth was braver than he had ever been in his life.
“Sir Wingrave,” he said, “there is one journey which we must all take in God’s good time. But the man who starts before he is called finds no welcome at the end. The greatest in life are those who are content to wait!”
“I am not in the least disposed to doubt it, Mr. Pengarth,” Wingrave said calmly. “Now I must really send you away.”
So Mr. Pengarth went, but Wingrave was not long destined to remain in solitude. There was a sound of voices in the hall, Morrison’s protesting, another insistent. Then the door opened, and Wingrave looked up with darkening face, which did not lighten when he recognized the intruder.
“Aynesworth!” he exclaimed, “what are you doing here? What do you want with me?”
“Five minutes,” Aynesworth answered, “and I mean to have it. You may as well tell your man to take his hand off my shoulder.”
Wingrave nodded to Morrison.
“You can go,” he said. “Come back when I ring.”