“She is in the village somewhere,” I answered. “She will not be home for tea. She has gone to see an old woman—to read to her, I think.”
My father sighed gently. “Alice is a good girl,” he said.
I bore the implied reproof complacently. My father sipped his tea for a moment or two, and then asked a question.
“You were speaking of some one when I crossed the lawn?” he remarked. “Some one not altogether a desirable neighbor I should imagine from Lady Naselton’s tone. Would it be a breach of confidence——”
“Oh, no,” I interrupted. “Lady Naselton was telling me all about the man that lives at the Court—our neighbor, Mr. Bruce Deville.”
My father set his cup down abruptly. His long walk had evidently tired him. He was more than ordinarily pale. He moved his basket-chair a few feet further back into the deep, cool shade of the cedar tree. For a second or two his eyes were half closed and his eyelids quivered.
“Mr. Bruce Deville,” he repeated, softly—“Bruce Deville! It is somewhat an uncommon name.”
“And somewhat an uncommon man!” Lady Naselton remarked, dryly. “A terrible black sheep he is, Mr. Ffolliot. If you really want to achieve a triumph you should attempt his conversion. You should try and get him to come to church. Fancy Bruce Deville in church! The walls would crack and the windows fall in!”
“My predecessor was perhaps not on good terms with him,” my father suggested, softly. “I have known so many unfortunate cases in which the squire of the parish and the vicar have not been able to hit it off.”
Lady Naselton shook her head. She had risen to her feet, and was holding out a delicately gloved hand.