“First man I ran against was that Mervyn, along with the chap who was upset in the cab accident in Pall Mall, and gave you his card—a Mr John Barnard, solicitor, in Furnival’s Inn—cousin or something of Mervyn’s—knew me by sight, and somehow we got to be very sociable. Don’t much like Mervyn, though. Good sort of fellow all the same—charitable, and so on.”
Richard smoked his pipe in silence longing to hear more of his old home, though every word respecting it came like a stab.
“Heard all about Penreife,” continued Pratt, talking in a careless, matter-of-fact way. “Our friend Humphrey is being courted, it seems, by everybody. Half the county been to call upon him, and congratulate him on his rise. I expected to find the fellow off his head when I saw him; but he was just the same—begged me to condescend to come and stay with him, which of course I didn’t, and as good as told me he was horribly bored, and anything but happy.”
There was a pause here, filled up by smoking.
“The old people are still there, and they say the new owner’s very kind to them; but our little friend Polly’s away at a good school, where she is to stay till the wedding. Humphrey wants to see you.”
Richard winced.
“Asked me to try and bring about a meeting, and sent all sorts of kind messages.”
Richard remained silent.
“Says he feels like as if he had deprived you of your birthright; and as for the people about, they say, Dick,”—Pratt paused for a few moments to light his pipe afresh—“they say, Dick, that you acted like a fool.”
Richard faced round quietly, and looked straight at his friend.