“The estate is left in trust.”
“From your gloomy expression, Tristram, I infer that you are one of the trustees,” remarked the Beau. “Am I right?”
“Oh yes, you’re right. Pickering is joined with me. I told Sylvester he should have named you.”
“You are too modest, my dear fellow. He could not have made a better choice.”
“I am not modest,” replied Shield. “I don’t want the charge of another man’s estate; that is all.”
The Beau laughed, and setting down his tea cup turned to Eustacie. “It has occurred to me that I am here merely in the role of chaperon to a betrothed couple,” he said. “I do not feel that I am cut out for such a role, so I shall go away now. Dear cousin!—” He raised her hand to his lips. “Tristram, my felicitations. If we do not meet before we shall certainly meet at Sylvester’s funeral.”
There was a short silence after he had gone. Sir Tristram snuffed a candle which was guttering, and glanced down at Eustacie, sitting still and apparently pensive by the fire. As though aware of his look, she raised her eyes and gazed at him in the intent, considering way which was so peculiarly her own.
“Sylvester wants to see us married before he dies,” Shield said.
“Basil does not think he will die.”
“I believe he is nearer to it than we know. What did the doctor say?”