“Not yet, sir. When I take my leave of you will be soon enough.”
Old Mr Bayre uttered an indignant grunt, but before he could speak, Olwen had run down the stairs past him and stood by the young man’s side.
“What are you doing here?” asked the old man, gruffly.
She turned and looked up.
“I’ll show him the way out,” she said. “I can draw the bolts myself and turn the key. And that will save you the risk of catching cold.”
With a grunt and a muttered grumble, Mr Bayre was apparently on the point of retreating up the stairs; but pausing for an instant to look down upon the young people, something in their attitude struck him, as he peered down by the light of his lantern and of the dim lamp above, and he descended the stairs with leisurely footsteps, keeping his eyes fixed upon his nephew.
“I can show him out,” said the old man, with disagreeable emphasis. “I shall be delighted to. Olwen, you can go back to your room.”
The girl hesitated and held out her hand.
“Good-bye, Mr Bayre,” said she.
The old man placed himself between them, but the young one would not be put off. He took the girl’s hand and held it in his for a moment, saying, in a voice the significance of which was unmistakable, “Good-bye. And—thank you.”