“Very, Sir Mark.”
“Then I have been doing wrong,” thought Sir Mark. “This old idiot here must have inherited all the old man’s money, unless—. Did your brothers much resemble him, Sir Thomas?” he said aloud.
“Brothers, sir? I never had a brother. I was an only child.”
“Indeed! But I might have known. Sir Thomas, this is a fitting time to thank you for your hospitality. I may not have another chance before I go.”
“But you will not go yet, Sir Mark. I was about to press you to stay with us yet a while—till your health is more restored. You look pale and ill as yet, Sir Mark.”
“Really, Sir Thomas? Thanks for your kindly concern, but I must go and try to recover elsewhere. Your good lady, Dame Beckley, has been trying to persuade me to stay, but I think my visit here has been too long already.”
“Nay, nay,” cried Sir Thomas, “we cannot spare you yet. You must think us very unfeeling if, after your terrible loss, you are not almost forced to stay here and recover. Not a word more, Sir Mark, not a word.”
Sir Mark, however, endeavoured to put in several words, but was checked by his host, who left him afterwards, strutting away with a fat smile upon his countenance, and a belief in his heart that he had been doing some very hospitable act, Mistress Anne’s commands being for the time entirely forgotten.
“That is settled then,” said Sir Mark, as he kneaded a fresh piece of paste for the carp. “Perhaps in a few weeks I may find out some way of raising money, that is, when my heart has grown less sore.”
He threw out his bait, and then settled himself with his back against a tree, to take a quiet nap, when, in a sheltered nook, where four huge hawthorns formed a kind of bower, he once more saw Mistress Anne busily reading, and, thinking that he ought to tell her of his intention to stay, he rose to saunter to her side.