“I dare say,” said Egremont bowing to Sybil, “you have seen our poor friend the weaver since we met there.”
“The day I quitted Mowbray,” said Sybil. “They are not without friends.”
“Ah! you have met my daughter before.”
“On a mission of grace,” said Egremont.
“And I suppose you found the town not very pleasant, Mr Franklin,” continued Gerard.
“No; I could not stand it, the nights were so close. Besides I have a great accumulation of notes, and I fancied I could reduce them into a report more efficiently in comparative seclusion. So I have got a room near here, with a little garden, not so pretty as yours; but still a garden is something; and if I want any additional information, why, after all, Mowbray is only a walk.”
“You say well and have done wisely. Besides you have such late hours in London, and hard work. Some country air will do you all the good in the world. That gallery must be tiresome. Do you use shorthand?”
“A sort of shorthand of my own,” said Egremont. “I trust a good deal to my memory.”
“Ah! you are young. My daughter also has a wonderful memory. For my own part, there are many things which I am not sorry to forget.”
“You see I took you at your word, neighbour,” said Egremont. “When one has been at work the whole day one feels a little lonely towards night.”