At dinner the conversation flagged, the scene that preceded it having presumably left a painful impression; and Ernest, who was an observant youth, fell to watching little Dorothy doing the honours of the table: cutting up her crazed old grandfather’s food for him, seeing that everybody had what they wanted, and generally making herself unobtrusively useful. In due course the meal came to an end, and Mr. Cardus and old Atterleigh went back to the office, leaving Dorothy alone with Ernest. Presently the former began to talk.
“I hope that your eye is not painful,” she said. “Jeremy hits very hard.”
“O no, it’s all right. I’m used to it. When I was at school in London I often used to fight. I’m sorry for him, though—your brother, I mean.”
“Jeremy! O yes, he is always in trouble, and now I suppose that it will be worse than ever. I do all I can to keep things smooth, but it is no good. If he won’t go to Mr. Halford’s, I am sure I don’t know what will happen;” and the little lady sighed deeply.
“O, I daresay that he will go. Let’s go and look for him, and try and persuade him.”
“We might try,” she said, doubtfully. “Stop a minute, and I will put on my hat, and then if you will take that nasty thing off your eye, we might walk on to Kesterwick. I want to take a book, out of which I have been teaching myself French, back to the cottage where old Miss Ceswick lives, you know.”
“All right,” said Ernest.
Presently Dorothy returned, and they went out by the back way to a little room near the coach-house, where Jeremy stuffed birds and kept his collection of eggs and butterflies; but he was not there. On inquiring of Sampson, the old Scotch gardener who looked after Mr. Cardus’s orchid-houses, she discovered that Jeremy had gone out to shoot snipe, having borrowed Sampson’s gun for that purpose.
“That is just like Jeremy,” she sighed. “He is always going out shooting instead of attending to things.”
“Can he hit birds flying, then?” asked Ernest.