“A year ago, madam,” he answered. “He is engaged at present in the estate office. He knows the work well——”
“The best place for him, of course,” she interrupted. “We ought to do all we can for our young men who went out to the war. I should like to see your son, Mr. Hurd. Will you tell him to come up some day?”
“Certainly, madam,” he answered.
“Perhaps he would like to shoot with my guests on Thursday?” she suggested graciously.
Mr. Hurd did not seem altogether pleased.
“It has never been the custom, madam,” he remarked, “for either my son or myself to be associated with the Thorpe shooting parties.”
“Some customs,” she remarked pleasantly, “are well changed, even in Thorpe. We shall expect him.”
Mr. Hurd’s mouth reminded her for a moment of a steel trap. She could see that he disapproved, but she had no intention of giving way. He began to tie up his papers, and she watched him with some continuance of that wave of interest which he had somehow contrived to excite in her. The signature of one of the letters which he was methodically folding, caught her attention.
“What a strange name!” she remarked. “Victor Macheson! Who is he?”