"That shows he's a terrible fool. Don't you mate with a fool, Milly."
"I'll promise that anyway, sir."
She spoke with perfect self-possession and interested the old man. Then he found that he was interested, and turned upon himself impatiently and shouted to his son.
"Come on, boy! What are you dawdling there for?"
Mark instantly dug his heels into his pony and followed his father. He was a youthful edition of the elder, with a difference. Humphrey was ill-clad, and Mark was neat. Humphrey's voice was harsh and disagreeable; Mark's was soft and almost womanly. Mark also had a smooth face and heavy eyebrows; but his features were clearer cut, more delicate; his eyes were blue and beautiful. He had a manner somewhat timid and retiring. He was not a cringing man, but a native deference guided him in all dealings with his kind.
Before starting, Mr. Baskerville stopped, drew a letter from his pocket, and called to Rupert.
"Take this to my brother Vivian, will you? I was going to leave it on the way back, but I'll not waste his time."
The youth came forward and took the letter.
"Father's away to Bideford—standing stickler for the wrestlin'," he said.
"Good God! At his age! Can't an old man of seventy find nothing better and wiser to do than run after childish things like that?"