Reginald was following his brother and Philip Percival, when Raymond turned quickly towards him.
"Wait a few minutes, Reg, if you don't mind. I want to speak to Percival alone."
Reginald obeyed without a word, and sitting down on a stool in the passage, buried his face in his hands, trying to shut out the sound of the ringing voice above, as it called, "Yes, father; I am coming. Oh! look at the chestnut tree, all in flower, not buds, as I thought."
Then the door above was closed, and Stevens came down, in her hand a large paper parcel. She was crying bitterly.
"I have just cut it all off," she said. "Did you ever see such hair? Oh! the pretty darling. I can remember it when she was three years old—how the people would turn round to look at it when she walked down the village. O Master Reg, my dear, my heart will break if we lose her! And we shall lose her, I believe."
Reginald did not speak. After one look at the great mass of golden brown hair, he turned almost impatiently away, and went upstairs to his own room.
I cannot write what passed between Philip Percival and Raymond; but when Stevens came to call him to dinner, he seemed not to hear her. Philip Percival was standing by the empty fire-place, and, rousing himself, went up to Raymond, saying,—
"Good-bye; I am going now."
"Wait and see Reginald. You must wait and dine with us."
"You can tell Reginald alone; it will be less painful."