“But don’t go down to the school, Cyril,” said the Rector, rather anxiously.
“Oh, no; of course not,” said the son.
“We need not mind what people say, but it is as well not to give them cause for chattering. There is nothing to be ashamed of, but while Sage has the school we’ll let matters go on as usual.”
“But she must not stay there, father.”
“Certainly not, Cyril. I’ll chat the matter over with Portlock, and see about a fresh mistress as soon as possible.”
“That’s right,” said Cyril; and before, his father could say more he was gone.
“Get a new mistress—get a new master,” muttered the Rector, tapping the table with his well-pared finger-nails. “Why, it is near the time when Luke Ross will be back. Tut—tut—tut! It is a most unfortunate affair.”
It was so near the time that Luke Ross was already on his way to the London terminus, and a few more hours would see him at Lawford.
“Well, well, I’ve nothing to do with that,” said the Rector, impatiently. “Sage and he must settle the matter between them. She evidently never cared for him, and—tut—tut—tut! Well, there, I’ve done all for the best.”
He went off to solace himself with a look at his flowers, and tried to forget what entanglements might ensue; while Cyril, with his hands in his pockets, smoked cigar after cigar, as he fidgeted about in his own room, trying to screw his courage up to the proper point for a visit to Kilby Farm, for, truth to tell, the nearer the necessity for an interview with the Churchwarden, the less he felt disposed to undertake the task.