“We will go together,” he said. “She will be glad to see you, I am sure. Mind the mud; it’s horribly slippery.”
We descended the footpath together. Just as we reached the gates of the Yellow House, I turned to him.
He sighed.
“I am not the one to whom you should appeal,” he said. “I have not the right to tell you anything; you may know very soon. In the meantime, will you tell me where your father is?”
“He is at home,” I answered, “in bed. He is ill. I do not think that he will see you. He is not going to get up to-day.”
Mr. Deville did not appear in the least disturbed or disappointed. On the contrary, his face cleared, and I think that he was relieved.
“I am glad to hear it,” he answered.
“Why?”
“He is better out of the way just for the present. When does he take up his new appointment?”