“I have done, Luke,” said Vine quietly. “Come along; Louise will think we are very long.”
“Louise will be very glad to have an hour or two to herself without you pottering about her. Hah! what idiots we men are, fancying that the women are looking out for us from our point of view when they are looking out from theirs for fear of being surprised, and—”
“Here we are, Luke. Come in, my dear boy.”
Uncle Luke grunted.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, “it’s getting late. Perhaps I had better not come in now.”
“The tea will be waiting,” said his brother, holding his arm lightly as he rang.
“Horribly dark for my walk back afterwards,” grumbled Uncle Luke. “Really dangerous place all along there by the cliff. No business to be out at night. Ought to be at home.”
“Tea ready, Liza?” said George Vine, as the door was opened, and the pleasant glow from the hall shone upon them in a way that, in spite of his assumed cynicism, looked tempting and attractive to Uncle Luke.
“Miss Louise hasn’t rung for the urn yet, sir.”
“Hah! that will do. Give me your hat, Luke.”