“Yes, Mr Robert.”
“If Mr Anthony comes up again, just let me know. I should wish him to see one or two of the other things in the house, but I prefer showing them to him myself.”
“It’s most likely he’ll be up again to-day, sir. He wants Miss Winifred to have a look at the plant.”
“Certainly, certainly. You can send in word when they come. And, Stokes—”
Stokes, who by this time had his hand upon the door, having tucked the luckless Gesnera out of sight, turned obediently.
“No experiments, mind, no experiments.”
“No, Mr Robert ’Specially korkynit,” added the gardener in an audible whisper, as he went out. Whether or not Mr Robert heard him, it is impossible to say. Something like a red flush rose in his face, and he looked hurriedly at his brother; but Mr Mannering was sitting back in his deep chair, his elbows on its arms, his fingers joined at the tips, his eyes fixed upon the volume before him, and if the shadow of a smile just hovered about his lips, it might have been excited by some touch of subtile humour in the pages which apparently absorbed his attention. The younger brother fidgeted, went to the window, altered a slight crookedness about the blind, stood there in his favourite attitude, with his hands behind his back, and at length returned to the writing-table, and took up one of the bundles of papers which were lying upon it.
“You have written to Thompson about the mortgage, I suppose?” he said in a business-like tone which contrasted oddly with his previous bustling excitement.
“Really, Robert,” said Mr Mannering, looking up, and speaking apologetically, “I believe I have done nothing of the kind. Upon my word, I do not know where my memory is going. I had the pen in my hand to begin the letter, and something must have put the matter out of my head.”
“Never mind. If you can make room I’ll sit down at once, and give the fellow a summary of what he has to do.”