Through the slumberous summer air came the whir of the machine. It was June.
"It's the laziest sound on earth," said Wyverton.
Molly turned off the road to a stile. "You ought to take a holiday," she said, as she mounted it.
He vaulted the railing beside it and gave her his hand. "I'm not altogether a drone, Miss Neville," he said.
Molly seated herself on the top bar and surveyed him. "Of course not," she said. "You are here on business, aren't you?"
Wyverton's extended hand fell to his side. "Now what is it you want to say to me?" he asked her, quietly.
Molly's hands were clasped in her lap. They did not tremble, but they gripped one another rather tightly.
"I want to say a good many things," she said, after a moment.
Lord Wyverton smiled suddenly. He had meeting brows, but his smile was reassuring.
"Yes?" he said. "About your sister?"