"Good night!"
Sidney found the invitations awaiting him at home. Mr. Hinchford had opened his own letter, and spent the greater part of the afternoon in perusing and reperusing it.
"What—what do you think of this, Sid?"
"Tell me what you think of it."
"Well—I think, just for once, we might as well go—show them that we know how to behave ourselves, poor as we are, Sidney."
"Very well," said Sidney, somewhat wearily; "we'll go!"
"Let me see; what have I done with that dress coat of mine?" said the father; "how long is it since I wore it, I wonder?"
Twenty-five years, or thereabouts, since Mr. Hinchford had worn a dress-coat, consequently a little behind the fashion just then. Sidney Hinchford thought with a sigh of the fresh expenses incurred by the acceptance of his cousin's invitation; he who was saving money for the rainy days ahead of him. How long ahead now, he thought, were the years still to intervene and leave him in God's sunlight? He could not tell; but there was a cruel doubt, which kept him restless. Give him his sight whilst his father lived, at least, and spare the white head further care in this life! Afterwards, when he was alone, he thought, a little misanthropically, it did not matter. His own trouble he could bear, and there would be no one else—no one in all the world!—to grieve about him. A few expressions of commonplace condolence for his affliction, and then—for ever alone!
Sidney Hinchford and his father went down by railway to Redhill. The dinner-party was for five P.M.—an early hour, to admit of London friends return by the eleven o'clock train. At the station, Mr. Geoffry Hinchford's carriage waited for father and son, and whirled them away to the family mansion, whilst the less favoured, who had arrived by the same train, sought hired conveyances.
"He treats us well—just as we deserve to be treated—just as I would have treated him, Sid. He was always a good sort—old Jef!"