"The rogue has no cousin, has she?" said Mrs. Mountstuart.
"It's a family of one son or one daughter for generations," replied
Willoughby.
"And Letty Dale?"
"Cousin!" he exclaimed, as if wealth had been imputed to Miss Dale; adding: "No male cousin."
A railway station fly drove out of the avenue on the circle to the hall-entrance. Flitch was driver. He had no right to be there, he was doing wrong, but he was doing it under cover of an office, to support his wife and young ones, and his deprecating touches of the hat spoke of these apologies to his former master with dog-like pathos.
Sir Willoughby beckoned to him to approach.
"So you are here," he said. "You have luggage."
Flitch jumped from the box and read one of the labels aloud:
"Lieutenant-Colonel H. De Craye."
"And the colonel met the ladies? Overtook them?"
Here seemed to come dismal matter for Flitch to relate.