CHAPTER IX
SUMMER LIGHTNING
Stephen Hurd walked into the room which he and his father shared as a sanctum, half office, half study. Mr. Hurd, senior, was attired in his conventional Sabbath garb, the same black coat of hard, dull material, and dark grey trousers, in which he had attended church for more years than many of the villagers could remember. Stephen, on the other hand, was attired in evening clothes of the latest cut. His white waistcoat had come from a London tailor, and his white tie had cost him considerable pains. His father looked him over with expressionless face.
“You are going to the House again, Stephen?” he asked calmly.
“I am asked to dine there, father,” he answered. “Sorry to leave you alone.”
“I have no objection to being alone,” Mr. Hurd answered. “I think that you know that. You lunched there, didn’t you?”
Stephen nodded.
“Miss Thorpe-Hatton asked me as we came out of church,” he answered.
“You play cards?”