By dinner-time Grantham was quiet. A few gentlemen stayed on overnight, but they were not many. Miss Taverner could go to bed in the expectation of a night’s unbroken repose.
She thought herself reasonably safe from any further talk of the fight. It had been described to her in detail at least five times. There could be no more to say.
There was no more to say. Peregrine realized it, and beyond exclaiming once or twice during breakfast next morning that he never hoped to see a better mill, and asking his sister whether he had told her of this or that hit, he did not talk of it. He was out of spirits; after the excitement of the previous day, Sunday in Grantham was insipid beyond bearing. He was cursed flat, was only sorry Judith’s scruples forbade them setting forward for London at once.
There was nothing to do but go to church, and stroll about the town a little with his sister on his arm. Even the gig had had to be returned to its owner.
They attended the service together, and after it walked slowly back to the George. Peregrine was all yawns and abstraction. He could not be brought to admire anything, was not interested in the history even of the Angel Inn, where it was said that Richard the Third had once lain. Judith must know he had never cared a rap for such fusty old stuff. He wished there were some way of passing the time; he could not think what he should do with himself until dinner.
He was grumbling on in this strain when the pressure of Judith’s fingers on his arm compelled his attention. She said in a low voice: “Perry, the gentleman who gave up his rooms to us! I wish you would speak to him: we owe him a little extraordinary civility.”
He brightened at once, and looked round him. He would be glad to shake hands with the fellow; might even, if Judith was agreeable, invite him to dine with them.
The gentleman was approaching them, upon the same side of the road. It was evident that he had recognized them; he looked a little conscious, but did not seem to wish to stop. As he drew nearer he raised his hat and bowed slightly, and would have passed on if Peregrine, dropping his sister’s arm, had not stood in the way.
“I beg pardon,” Peregrine said, “but I think you are the gentleman who was so obliging to us on Friday?”
The other bowed again, and murmured something about it being of no moment.