“My dear! my dear!” muttered Oldroyd between his teeth; “always my dear. Surely the old idiot is not going to marry the wicked little flirt.”
“I had not had time, Major Day,” said Lucy eagerly, “but I don’t think dear Moray is any worse than usual.”
“Worse than usual? Then he has been unwell?”
“He is ill,” replied Lucy, “but it has been coming on so slowly that I am afraid we do not notice it so much as we should.”
“But is he confined to his bed?”
“Oh, no!” cried Lucy. “He is going on with his studies just as usual.”
“I’ll come over and see him. I meant to come, but I—er—I hesitated, my dear. Do you think he would be pleased if I called?”
“I’m sure he would, Major Day,” cried Lucy. “Pray come soon.”
“Indeed, I will, perhaps to-morrow. Are you going my way?”
“No, major, I am going back to The Firs. I do not like to be away when Mr Oldroyd is going to see my brother.”