“Oh, yes,” growled Wilton, “and crops failing, and markets falling, and swine fever, and flukes in your sheep, and rinderpest in your cattle, and the bank refusing your checks.”
“Oh, come, come, not so bad as that! You have fine weather as well as foul,” said Garstang, merrily. “Then Harry has not been down again, Claud?”
“No, I haven’t seen him since he went back the other day,” said Claud, and added to himself, “and don’t want to.”
“That’s strange,” said Garstang, thoughtfully. “I wonder where he has gone. I daresay he will be back at the office, though, by now. I don’t like for both of us to be away together. When the cat’s away the mice will play, Kate, as the old proverb says.”
“Then why don’t you stop at the office, you jolly old sleek black tom, and not come purring down here?” said Claud to himself. “Bound to say you can spit and swear and scratch if you like.”
There was a dead silence just then, which affected Mrs Wilton so that she felt bound to say something, and she turned to the visitor.
“Of course, John Garstang, we don’t want to encourage Harry Dasent here, but if—”
“Ah, here’s lunch ready at last,” cried Wilton, so sharply that his wife jumped and shrank from his angry glare, while the bell in the little wooden turret went on clanging away.
“Oh, yes, lunch,” she said hastily. “Claud, my dear, will you take your cousin in?”
But Garstang had already arisen, with bland, pleasant smile, and advanced to Kate.