‘I want nothing,’ he said. ‘I’ve been to the Barmbys’.’ Voice and movements proved how the effort had taxed him. In sitting down, he trembled; fever was in his eyes, and pain in every line of his countenance.
Mary handed him a letter; it came from Horace, and was an intimation that the young gentleman would not return to-night, but to-morrow. When Mr. Lord had read it, he jerked a contemptuous laugh, and threw the sheet of note-paper across the table.
‘There you are. Not much to choose between daughter and son. He’s due at business in the morning; but what does that matter? It doesn’t suit his lordship to keep time.’
He laughed again, his emphasis on ‘lordship’ showing that he consciously played with the family name.
‘But I was a fool to be angry. Let them come when they will.’
For a few minutes he lay back in the chair, gazing at vacancy.
‘Has the girl gone to bed?’
‘I’ll tell her she can go.’
Mary soon returned, and took up the book with which she had been engaged. In a low voice, and as if speaking without much thought, Stephen asked her what she was reading. It was a volume of an old magazine, bought by Mr. Lord many years ago.
‘Yes, yes. Nancy laughs at it—calls it old rubbish. These young people are so clever.’