Major Dudley arose a little unsteadily. His present trouble, crowding the heels of last night's occurrence, had told on him. His face was careworn, and there was the suggestion of a stoop in his shoulders. John had likewise risen.
"If you will pardon me, suh," spoke the Major, "I'll lie down a while now. A lazy custom of mine for which there really is no excuse. But habit is strong, and grows stronger the more we humour it. I will be up and out in the course of an hour. My daughter will entertain you, suh."
He bowed in formal, old-fashioned courtesy, and made his way to a long, deep davenport across the room which Glenning had hitherto failed to notice.
The caller now followed Julia into the hall.
"It seems impossible for us to treat you as a stranger in any way," she said, in a low, musical voice, "or to make company of you. Shall we sit on the portico, or would you rather go out on the lawn? We can take chairs out, if you prefer."
"Am I to speak with perfect freedom? I believe that is the best and truest basis for friendship, and I hope we may grow to be friends."
The partly alarmed glance which she darted at him showed only the habitual expression, half-smiling, half-grave, wholly genuine.
"The truth, always, and straight from the shoulder," she answered. "Deliver me from men or women who are constantly beating about the bush and perpetually feeling their way."
"Bravo!" he exclaimed, softly, and laughed—a chest laugh which thrilled her. "If everyone followed that maxim we would always know where our neighbours stood. Then this is the thing I wish now—to go have a look at The Prince's new stable. It had best be done by daylight, and—"
"Why, certainly."