“Ahem! No, my boy,” said Sir Godfrey, trying to be cordial, but speaking coldly. “Sit down. Been out with Scarlett?”
“Yes, sir. All the afternoon in the woods,” replied Fred, looking at the baronet wonderingly, for he had never heard him speak in such a tone before.
Ever since he could remember he had been in and out of the Hall at meal-times, even sleeping there often, and Scarlett’s visits to the Manor had been of the same character. To all intents and purposes the life of the boys had been that of brothers, while that of their fathers had been much the same.
It was a genuine old-fashioned Coombeshire repast to which the hungry boys sat down, eating away as boys of fifteen or sixteen can eat, and bread and butter, ham, cake, junket and cream, disappeared at a marvellous rate.
“Is your father poorly?” whispered Fred, after satisfying his hunger to some extent. “I don’t know. Don’t speak so loud.”
“Wasn’t speaking so loud,” said Fred, kicking Scarlett under the table. “What’s the matter with him?”
“I don’t know. Heard some bad news, perhaps.”
“Shall we tell him about the secret way? He’d like to hear, I dare say.”
“No, no; let’s keep it to ourselves for the present.”
That something was troubling Sir Godfrey was evident, for his supper was hardly tasted, and twice over, when Lady Markham spoke to him, and pressed him to eat, he declined in an irritable way.