Horace flattered himself that he had gained a victory. There was nothing like ‘firmness,’ and that evening, about nine, he went to De Crespigny Park. As usual, he had to ring the bell two or three times before any one came; the lively notes of a piano sounded from the drawing-room, intimating, no doubt, that Mrs. Peachey had guests. The door at length opened, and he bade the servant let Miss. Fanny know that he was here; he would wait in the dining-room.
It was not yet dark, but objects could only just be distinguished; the gloom supplied Horace with a suggestion at which he laughed to himself. He had laid down his hat and cane, when a voice surprised him.
‘Who’s that?’ asked some one from the back of the room.
‘Oh, are you there, Mr. Peachey?—I’ve come to see Fanny. I didn’t care to go among the people.’
‘All right. We’d better light the gas.’
With annoyance, Horace saw the master of the house come forward, and strike a match. Remains of dinner were still on the table. The two exchanged glances.
‘How is your father?’ Peachey inquired. He had a dull, depressed look, and moved languidly to draw down the blind.
‘Oh, he isn’t quite up to the mark. But it’s nothing serious, I think.’
‘Miss. Lord quite well?—We haven’t seen much of her lately.’
‘I don’t know why, I’m sure.—Nobody can depend upon her very much.’