“Trethick! Trethick!” he called, and Geoffrey crossed the passage, meeting Mrs Mullion, who ran out with her handkerchief to her eyes, and her face averted.
“Ashamed of being so hard on her child,” thought Geoffrey; and then he started, shocked at the old man’s aspect, as, with his hat on, he sat there, looking yellow, wrinkled, sunken of eye and cheek, with all his quick, sharp ways gone, and with generally the aspect of one just recovering from some terrible shock.
“Good heavens, Mr Paul, how ill you look!” cried Geoffrey, anxiously, as the thought struck him that he had not been to bed all night.
“Yes,” said the old man, “I feel ill.”
“Let me run down and fetch Rumsey. Stop, I’ll get you a little, brandy first.”
“No, no. I don’t want brandy,” said the old man, gazing at him wildly, and with his face now cadaverous in the extreme. “Rumsey can’t help me. Help me yourself.”
“Yes. What shall I do for you?”
“Sit down, Trethick.”
He took a chair, looking intently at the speaker.
“Trethick, will you smoke a cheroot?”