Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Three.
“My Dear North!”
“No, sir, he isn’t at home,” said Mrs Milt, trying to smile at the curate, but only succeeding in producing two icy wrinkles—one on either side of her lips. “Some one ill, Mrs Milt?”
“Well, really, sir, I can’t say. Master shut himself in his study last thing—as he will persist in ruining his health and his pocket in lamps and candles—and I went to bed as usual, although mortally in dread of fire, for master is so careless with a light. Then I s’pose some one must have come in the night and fetched him. His breakfast has been waiting hours, and—oh, here he comes!”
For at that moment North came round the end of the house, having entered his garden right at the bottom by the meadow, his dew-wet boots and the dust upon his trousers showing that he must have been walking far.
“Breakfast’s quite ready, sir,” said Mrs Milt austerely, as soon as North came within hearing.
“Yes—yes,” he said impatiently, as he waved her away. “Ah, Salis! Come in.”
“Why, how fagged you look! Who is ill?”